


A Bird in Space

by shitshow-mcgee (Lautremonde)



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety Attacks, Assault, Car Accidents, Drug Use, Drunk Driving, M/M, Misgendering, Nude Modeling, Racism, Sex, Sex Work, Underage Drinking, hidden homeless, sleep paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-22 15:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8290727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lautremonde/pseuds/shitshow-mcgee
Summary: In the wake of a traumatic car crash, Stan Pines needs cash fast.  Artistic genius Rick Sanchez is willing to pay for his time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Stanchez Micro-Bang](http://stanchez-bang.tumblr.com). 
> 
> I was overjoyed to work with my dear (and incredibly talented) friend [Vierokosuja](http://vieroksujadraws.tumblr.com). She produced [the amazing art found throughout this fic](http://vieroksujadraws.tumblr.com/post/152396634191/).

In the sixteen-some months since he had been kicked out, Stan Pines had done a number of things for money: prize fighting, questionable deliveries, selling lousy products, odd jobs down on the docks － all kinds of things. He had even, on one memorable occasion, drunkenly taken off his clothes at an amateur night and come home with his boxers stuffed full of singles. At eighteen it was barely legal, but with his stubble, he passed for much older.

It had been fun, an ego boost. Stan had never been shy about his body, but he’d been eating a steady diet of whatever’s-cheapest since he started living out of his car. It was nice to know some folks liked his look.

But wearing nothing but a robe and looking in at a crowd of apprehensive art students murmuring and checking their smartphones, he was starting to feel a little nervous. Instead of boldly striding in, casting his robe into the air behind him － the way he had imagined it going － he shifted his weight at the door, pressing the arch of his bare foot into the cold grooved metal of the threshold.

“You are new to this.”

The voice appeared at his shoulder from the dark of the hallway behind him. Stan had never met the man before, but he was certain this was Professor Parson. He was imposing, broad shouldered with a beak-like nose and a clear, monotonous voice. He was middle aged, setting him clearly apart from the freshman chittering nervously in the studio.

“Uh, yeah...” Stan said. He scratched at his head with one hand, and tried not to be obvious about clutching at his robe with the other. It was borrowed from Ford and didn't fit well.

“So are most of my students. However, they will find that this is a non-sexual activity. I am sure you will as well. There is no cause for alarm.”

The guy sure went in for a lot of eye contact, Stan thought, uncomfortable with the man’s unwavering stare.

Stan had read on Wikipedia that if you popped a boner as an artists’ model, you probably would not be invited back, so he imagined that _that_ was what the guy was getting at. And Stan definitely wanted to be invited back － his car wouldn't fix itself, and at an hourly rate, this was the best paying job on campus.

“I'm sure it's nothing I can't handle,” Stan said, with a confident smile he didn't feel.

“As you say,” the professor nodded seriously, “I will address my students, and we will begin momentarily. Are you comfortable with my directing their focus to your face?”

Stan felt sucker punched, but he smiled broadly － it pulled at his cuts and ached in the swelling.

“No, no, whatever works for you, Professor, not gonna tell you how to teach a class,” he said, laughing.

The professor stared at him with an inscrutable expression, then nodded, and got to work.

He moved past Stan into the dusty light of the studio. His students easily came to attention, as he briefly reminded them in his monotone about whatever they had covered last time － Stan’s face didn’t come up. He directed them to benches, which they sat astride with their large sketchbooks propped up in front of them.

Apparently unsatisfied, he had them move their benches, and the room was filled briefly with grating noise as they dragged against the linoleum, interspersed by the clattering of dropped pencils and quiet staring. Finally, they were arrayed to his satisfaction about a small wooden platform in the center of the room.

The professor looked at him with the same inscrutable expression he had borne since entering the room. Probably time to get going, then.

Stan picked his way through the room to the center platform, trying to avoid brushing any of the students.

“We’ll start with one minute poses,” the professor said.

Stan pulled off his robe hurriedly, trying to ignore the way nearby students’ eyes skittered away as he took it off. He stepped onto the wooden platform and stood with his arms at his side, staring determinedly at the wall at the back of the room.

“Begin,” said the professor.

The room was filled immediately with scratching, and from the corner of his eye Stan saw that the students were glancing furiously back and forth between the papers in front of them and his body. The minute dragged on, until the professor spoke.

“Switch pose. Something more dynamic this time. Turn to face a different part of the room.”

Stan didn’t know what ‘more dynamic’ meant, so he looked at the professor as he awkwardly stuck his arms out in the air and shifted his weight to one foot. The professor nodded.

“Begin.”

  


Stan was surprised at how quickly a raised arm started to hurt when you had to just keep it perfectly still, but the minute passed. And he switched positions, and the next minute passed. And the next, and the next. They moved into two minute poses, then five. Finally, the professor brought him a stool, and he began a fifteen minute pose.

He relaxed onto the stool and realized he was facing the door.

Across from the studio door was an enormous painting of a vag. Not the sort he'd seen in nudie mags － the whole 9 square feet of it was all vagina, the flappy bits going right up to the edge of the canvas. Someone had put a lot of love into a detailed hand spreading the lips with two fingers, while the thumb rested lightly on the clit － which had been rendered in an enormous amount of line heavy detail － pressing just slightly. Despite the masturbatory details, it felt clinical. That close, it didn't feel sexy. He might as well have been looking at one of those, uh, flower paintings. He thought maybe he understood what the professor had meant by it being a non-sexual thing, if this was the kind of crap the students were putting in their sketch pads.

… He really hoped they weren't just filling up the page with his dong though.

Focused as he was on the painting in the gloom of the hallway － wondering how something he would ordinarily want to put his dick in could have zilch in the way of sex appeal － he noticed immediately when his view was interrupted by a shock of white hair.

A thin man, carrying a large sketchbook, stepped directly to the center of the doorframe, and made direct eye contact with Stan.

Stan blinked abruptly and tried to remember to keep still, as the man gave him a slow smile - which _absolutely_ had sex appeal.

He was incredibly lanky and _tall_. His wild white hair practically brushed the top of the frame. He wore a loose, paint-spattered black tank top and jeans so coated in paint they looked like they could stand up on their own.

He sauntered into the room and gave Stan a once over, grinning. He started setting up on a bench in the back, directly in Stan’s field of view.

“Rick,” the professor said, coming to stand beside him, “you are aware that the students are charged a fee which covers the associated costs of a model in order to attend this class.”

“Aa-aAwesome, then it's already paid for,” Rick replied. His voice had a strange burping lurch to it.

“My intention was to indicate that you have not paid this fee, as you are not enrolled in this class.”

“Aw, BP, don't do me like that man!” Rick said, smiling and elbowing the professor familiarly.

“Hmm. As long as you are not disruptive, you may remain,” the professor said.

“You're a real pal, Pers’,” Rick said.

The professor turned back to the class; “Two minutes remain in this pose.”

During those two minutes, Rick continued setting up. He propped up his sketchbook and organized his charcoal.

Stan tried to be discrete about his staring. Rick was, despite the white hair, of an indeterminate age. His skin was smooth and had a bronzish undertone. He had a unibrow, but despite it － and the presumably premature greying － the guy had _charisma_ , an electric energy that drew the eye.

Stan was relieved when the professor called for a new pose. He faced the opposite direction － and felt the prickles of Rick's gaze on his back for the entirety of the new position.

He started to feel sore, and the professor told him to take a stretch break before the next pose which would last an hour, with breaks every fifteen minutes. He nodded, grabbed his robe, and made a break for the bathroom before anyone could take the opportunity to speak with him.

By anyone, he meant Rick － the students had looked away as soon as he started pulling on his robe, the transition between nude and clothed somehow more uncomfortable than just being naked.

Rick did not.

Stan took the opportunity to shake out his shoulders and legs as much as he could without hitting the door to the bathroom stall. He splashed water on his face, and hissed a little as it drew his attention back to how _sore_ it was.

The swelling hadn't fully vanished, even two weeks after the incident. The cuts were still healing too. The doctors had tutted and told him he probably had a suppressed immune system, or something － before they handed him the bill.

His body had some large bruises along his left side too, but his face had definitely seen the worst of the whole experience.

He took a couple deep breaths. At least the students definitely got an interesting subject, he thought. Probably didn't have recent hospital releases on that little platform too frequently.

He turned off the faucet and headed back to work.

* * *

The hour long pose was fine. He wound up facing to the side of the room, with Rick in his peripheral vision. It was boring, but not hard.

It was a reclined pose, and there was a bolster and a blanket to soften the platform. At fifteen minute intervals he stood up, shook out his limbs, paced a bit, and then returned to his spot, positions for hands and feet marked out with bits of tape.

The professor informed him that, should he return next week, they would resume the pose. He nodded － it was a lot of money for just a couple hours.

When it was done, he grabbed his robe and his bag from the hallway and dashed off to the bathroom to change. He had told Ford when he would be done, so hopefully, Ford would let Stan back into the dorm.

Shoes and jeans back on, he called Ford from his ancient off-brand flip phone. It rang and rang － he kept it cradled between his shoulder and ear while he flipped his t-shirt right way out.

“ _You've reached the cell phone of Stanford Pines. If you leave your name, number, and reason for calling －_ ” it went to voicemail.

Stan groaned, set the phone on the edge of the sink, and pulled on his t-shirt.

He stuffed his borrowed robe into his borrowed bag and headed out of the art school. It was already starting to get dark out. He checked his phone repeatedly, and stopped at the door to call Ford again.

Voicemail.

He sighed heavily.

“Yeah, me too buddy,” Rick said, the door hissing shut behind him.

“What?” Stan asked, startled.

“Life's uh, one big trial, right?” Rick grinned at him.

Stan smiled back, “Ha, you got that right.”

“What's going on?” Rick asked. He had added a black leather jacket to his ensemble, and leaned casually against the brick of the building.

“Oh, locked myself out － roommate isn't picking up his phone,” Stan said. He didn't trip over any of the misleading bits of that statement － he was locked out because he didn't have his own keys. It wasn't his roommate because it wasn't his room. _Et_ _cetera_.

“That's rough, buddy － you've, uh, got nowhere else to be?” Rick asked.

“I guess I don't,” Stan said.

“Sounds like you need a drink then.”

Stan needed approximately a thousand drinks.

“If you're driving, sure,” he said.

“As long as you don't mind riding bitch,” Rick said.

* * *

It was a small black motorcycle and he only had one helmet. He left it strapped to the side saddle, rather than offering it to Stan or using it for himself. Stan clambered on without worrying about it and cautiously wrapped his arms around Rick’s ribcage. Close up, Stan noticed that his own arms looked as thick as Rick’s waist. Still, Rick was surprisingly solid, and the bar was only five minutes from campus anyways. The September air was refreshing on his bruised face, even as his scars failed to register the sensation.

It was getting on towards evening, and the bar had a decent crowd on a Thursday night. They walked in and immediately cut around a group of students getting carded at the door. Nobody stopped them.

It was a big place, restaurant all around the edges, enormous bar in the middle. Popular for its proximity to campus, but not a bad place to get drunk. Well kept. There was no way they were getting seats at the bar, so they squeezed on up between people to wait for the bartender. Rick ordered a pitcher for the two of them before Stan could get a word in.

“You can get the next one,” Rick said.

They retreated to a table in the corner to wait.

“So, I’m Rick,” Rick said.

“Stanford － _Stan_ ,” Stanley said.

“You model before, Stan?” Rick asked.

“Nah, was my first time － how’d I do?” Stan grinned.

“Fantastic,” Rick said, adding, “you in the art school?”

“Oh, hell no － uh, no offense,” Stan said, as the waitress set a pitcher and two glass beer mugs down in front of them.

Rick laughed it off and started pouring their beers. “Yeah? What, uh, what are you studying instead, eh smart guy?”

Uh. What _was_ Ford studying? Biology? No, uh － “Bioinformatics,” Stan said.

“Fuckin Christ!” Rick said, “MS?”

“Sure,” Stan said. That sounded like a thing.

“What the hell did you do _that_ for?” Rick asked.  

“Oh you know, just… love me some science,” Stan said. He remembered, vaguely, when Ford was talking about going to college. What he wanted to study. But he’d missed out on the specifics that led to _bioinformatics_.

“Science and getting naked,” Rick grinned, “A m-man after my own heart. I gotta apologize, uh, Stan, thought you were just one of those, those bimbos, ha! A man of science eh? STEM type! Well you can, uh, _definitely_ get the next round then, moneybags.”

There was that lurch to Rick’s voice again. It didn’t seem to slow him down any, Stan thought.

Stan laughed dismissively. “I’m uh, not exactly rolling in it, at uh, this stage.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Rick said, “on a, on account of, uh, I’d like to pay you to get naked.”

Stan coughed into his beer. “Oh, uh, yeah?”

“Yeah, need more model time － for uh, some personal projects. I’m workin on my thesis show, need to cut loose,” Rick said.

“... _What?_ ” Stan asked, “Sorry, that just sounded like a lot of dancing around the word _prostitution_.”

Rick laughed. “Eh, let’s say five percent accurate. I do make the occasional uh, erotic painting. But relax, I’d keep your ugly mug out of it, and you don’t have to touch anybody.”

Stan consciously stopped his hand from coming up to the scrapes on his face. He took a drink instead.

“How much we talking here?” Stan asked.

“Competitive with what you made today,” Rick said.

Stan whistled lowly and took a long drink. “Don’t think I can turn that one down.”

“My man!” Rick said, and raised his mug in a salute. Stan raised his glass in return, smiling.

“I uh, thought you science types were a, uh, bit more buttoned up,” Rick said.

“Oh, well,” Stan said, glancing across the bar, “I’m only in it for the money.”

* * *

Rick was good company. Though he definitely drank more than his share of the second pitcher － which Stan bought. At some point, he took a pen from his pocket and napkin from the holder and started absentmindedly sketching without taking his attention off the conversation.

“So, uh, don’t suppose I can convince you to get naked tonight?” Rick asked, as the second pitcher got down to the dregs.

“You know what,” Stan said, warm with alcohol, feeling loose and comfortable, “yeah, I can do that.”

“Nice,” Rick said, standing up. “Let me uh, hit the head for a moment, and we can get out of here. You uh, comfortable going to my place?”

In a way, no, he wasn’t. But he glanced up Rick’s body, remembered how he had felt with his arms around him, and thought, _hell_ － so what if he _did_ just have some kind of fetish? Wanted to pay and fuck him? Screw it, wouldn’t be the worst thing that happened that month. Stan mighta done it for free. Maybe.

“Yeah, definitely,” Stan said.

“Nice,” Rick said. He rapped his knuckles on the table and took off for the bathrooms.

Stan drained his beer, and sat for a moment, enjoying his buzz. He glanced down at the table, and spotted the napkin Rick had been doodling on. He frowned. He pulled it over to take a look.

_It was him._

It was a picture of Stan, sketched out in ballpoint, mug of beer in front of his face. It was a good likeness, and oddly flattering. His scrapes and bruises were all there, but there was a softness to them － part of it might have just been the limitations to a _ballpoint drawing on a napkin_ , but... Dude was talented. Made his jacked-up broken nose look like the feature of a lovable rogue, rather than a stupid kid.

“You ready to go?” Rick asked, abruptly reappearing.

“Oh yeah, just, uh, taking a look at your masterpiece,” Stan said.

Rick grinned. “You should uh, see what I can do with some oils. You can, in fact, if you want to get out of here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan said, and surreptitiously stuffed the napkin in his pocket － and felt his phone, already buzzing.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, pulling his phone out. It was Ford － Ford _again_. For the twelfth time, apparently. And several texts.

“Uh,” he said, and looked up at Rick, “Gimme a second － Hey bro.”

“Do you want to be let in or not?!” Ford sounded _extremely_ upset. “I do have class tomorrow, you know. Do you even know what _time_ it is?”

“Ah, shoot, sorry,” Stan said, “I’ll be right there.”

“Good.”

Ford hung up on him.

His buzz abruptly felt like a handicap more than a blessing.

“Rick, could I get a raincheck? And a, uh, ride back to campus? Roommate finally got back to me,” Stan said.

“Roommate sounds － _uurp_ － sounds like a dick,” Rick said, “but yeah sure, just －”

He took Stan’s phone out of his hand, and tapped in a phone number, then hung right back up.

“Right, where we headed?” Rick asked.

“Uh, dorms,” Stan said, as they headed out the door.

“Which building?”

“Oh uh, one by the uh, dining hall,” Stan said.

“Why you still living on campus?” Rick asked, “And you can just tell me the building name - I uh, might not live on campus but I, uh, did fuck my way through all of them,” He grinned.

“Well you don’t have to brag about it,” Stan said, laughing. “Classy.”

They clambered on the bike and headed out.

* * *

Rick dropped him off and Stan saw Ford waiting by the door, fuming. He was already in pajamas.

“Hey, Ford! Sorry －”

“It’s two AM. On a _Thursday_ ,” Ford said. “You know I have class at _eight_ tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I know Ford,” Stan said, “Sorry. You weren’t answering your phone earlier, so －”

“So you went out and got drunk. Great. Did you spend _everything_ you made?”

“Uh, I don’t think you know how much alcohol costs － and, I’m not drunk,” Stan said, trying to fight down indignation.

“I’m not a _child_ Stanley! I’ve _had_ alcohol. And if you’re going to use _my name_ to work on campus you could at least try to hold on to the money,” Ford said.

Stan shrugged. There were a lot of things he could say to that － if he could get anywhere else walking from Ford’s dorm, he wouldn’t need to go through the student employment office. This wasn’t exactly his first choice situation either, but his resources were limited.

And Ford needed to find someone who didn’t rip him off when buying alcohol for him, if he really thought Stan spent _everything_ on a _pitcher_. Or just get himself a fake ID.

He probably wouldn’t appreciate that though.

“I didn't even see you at the cantina,” Ford said as they walked down the hall, referring to the campus eatery where Stan had been hired.

“Nah, got another campus job,” Stan said. Ford looked at him curiously and he added, “just one won't support my _apparently crippling alcoholism_.”

“Take this seriously, why don’t you,” Ford snapped. He aggressively pressed the button to call the elevator.

“Sorry, guess I’m too _drunk_ ,” Stan said, snidely, as they stepped in.

Ford clenched his fists. Stan hit the button for the right floor.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Stan said, without much sincerity, “I’m sorry I’m in your space, and I’m sorry I’m a _fuck-up_.”

The doors opened, and Stan headed down the hall.

“You’re going the wrong way,” Ford said.

“Not if I’m gonna sleep in the lounge,” Stan said, not looking back.

“Stan,” Ford sighed, “Don’t do that. Someone will ask...”

Stan paused. His fists felt creaky and heavy as he flexed them at his sides. He nodded, swallowed, and turned around. He walked with Ford to the room.

Ford unlocked the room and let him in. The lights were on and Fiddleford’s bed was empty. Ford tossed Stan’s usual blanket and pillow at him and crawled into his own bed.

Stan folded the blanket over and laid it down on the ground next to Ford’s bed. He hit the light switch before he started to undress.

He crawled in between the layers of the blanket － it wasn’t enough to soften the linoleum, but it was less cramped than sleeping in the car.

In the darkness he settled his head back into the pillow. Ford’s breathing evened out, the tension bleeding away and dissipating.

Tipsy and staring at the ceiling, the room had a spinning-and-resetting quality to it. Stan felt anxious at the motion. He breathed heavily and tried to force it away.

It took twenty minutes but his eyes closed, and he relaxed.

He started to drift off to sleep and felt like he was _falling_ － the sensation of motion startled him and he jerked up and _the world slammed to the left without him in crunching metal and shattering glass_ and －

Stan was fully awake again.

He swallowed his frustration, wanted to scream. He made a fist and beat it once against his already-bruised thigh, hard and quiet.


	2. Chapter 2

Stan woke up at noon, and knew there was no getting back to sleep this time － since Ford and Fidds had left at 7:30, he had been moving between fitful sleep and a not-quite-awake state where dream logic still made sense.

Dream logic like: Someone is watching you, someone is in the room － things that were ridiculous when he was more fully awake, but that he couldn't stop thinking about whenever he opened his eyes.

He felt hot and sweaty, even under the thin sheets of his spot on the floor. But, more importantly, he felt very hungry, and a little hungover.

He climbed to his feet and took a look at the top of Ford’s dresser, which did double duty as a nightstand. Ford said he would sometimes leave his student ID card there for Stan, if he didn't need it during the day. He always needed it.

Stan’s stomach gurgled uncomfortably. He wished he would have gotten up in time to at least bum a swipe into the dining hall from Ford or Fidds.

He headed to the floor’s bathroom, careful to leave the door just slightly ajar. His stomach was churning. He thought he might vomit, not having had much but alcohol yesterday.

He freshened up in the mirror and took a look at his face.

It was… still bad. He guessed he looked like any student who had gone on a regrettable midweek bender, really. Barring the cuts and bruises. Definitely older than the sophomore he could have been (and was trying to pass for). Dark circles under his eyes, floppy hair, and all that stubble. He couldn't shave without pulling on the slowly healing cuts on his face, even if he had cared to.

The cuts and bruises though - he didn't look much like a college student with those. Not a college student at a prestigious technical institute in the safe suburbs. Maybe an inner city community college.

At least he could do laundry here. Otherwise, wearing the same set of clothes repeatedly would get gross much faster than it did.

He sighed and headed back to Ford’s room.

Now would be a good time to do laundry. Hopefully people would be at class or lunch, so he could stand around in his boxers running his single pair of jeans and his t-shirt through the wash without comment.

Ford had lent him a windbreaker with the school logo on it, but nothing else he owned was loose enough to fit Stan’s broader frame.

His stomach growled again. He spotted Fidds’ travel mug sitting unused on his desk, and snagged it. He felt clammy and gross, but mostly _hungry_.

He left the dorm, heading out into the world － it was still faintly warm, for the end of September, with the occasional cool gust. The windbreaker did its job, and the wind didn't cut through him like it could have. He made his way from dorm-side, walking a third of a mile down the paths past the gym and health center, to the academic-side.

He entered one of the buildings and headed past a reception counter straight for the stairs to the basement. The stairs to the basement descended over the placid, layered pools of a water feature. Stan hunched down in his borrowed windbreaker, feeling as out of place as he should.

He crossed the carpeting of the downstairs study area, passed the water feature, to the commuter lounge, and tried to shake off his mood before he entered.

“Hey,” he said cheerfully to the student worker in the lounge, “free coffee?” he held up his pilfered travel mug, grinning broadly.

“Oh sure,” she said, getting up from her desk to head to a cabinet, “these are the flavors we have,” she indicated a whiteboard behind her.

Stan picked out something with pumpkin in it, and she retrieved an off-brand Keurig cup from the cabinet. She crossed the room again, taking his mug from him, and operated the Keurig for him.

He accepted his mug back gratefully, “Thanks,” he said.

“Oh, can I get your swipe?” She asked, pointing to a barcode reader sitting on the desk.

Stan tried not to frown too obviously.

“Oh uh, sure,” he reached into his pocket, and then pantomimed a frantic search for his nonexistent ID card. “Shit, I left it in my dorm. I'm really sorry.”

She flapped a hand dismissively. “Oh, don't worry about it － if you know your UID number, we can use that.”

“Oh, uh, no, not off the top of my head,” Stan said.

“Then don't worry about it,” she said.

“Thanks, pal,” Stan said. “By the way, you know if they've got free food going on campus somewhere today?”

“Oh, uh, no idea. You know there's a Facebook group for that?”

Stan knew － it was a subset of the college-wide Facebook group. It required a university email to join. Luckily, he knew Ford’s Facebook password.

Unluckily, he didn't exactly have a lot of computer access. Or a smartphone.

“Oh _is_ there?” He asked.

“Yeah! You should check it out,” she said.

“I will definitely do that! Thanks again!” He toasted her with the travel mug as he headed out the door, back to the stairs.

The coffee soothed his hunger a bit, but he was starting to wish he'd showered or something instead of heading right out. The dorms needed keys and an ID card, so he wasn’t getting back in. He thought briefly of the campus gym, of just stopping in to shower, but he remembered that _that_ required an ID card too.

Looked like he'd just have to be sweaty and go pay for breakfast with real money then. Bummer.

On his way out the lobby, he stopped at a notice board to look for jobs. He already had the artist model gig and a couple shifts at a campus dining location through the student employment office － and under Ford’s name － but a couple extra bucks couldn’t hurt.

Staring at the notice board, eyes tracking over the various offers, he abruptly recalled the job offer from last night. He swore － he hadn’t even got Rick’s number. A memory of Rick holding his phone nudged at him and he pulled it out of his pocket. Maybe Rick had put his number in there for him.

He looked through his contacts without much hope. Finding a contact was an arduous process involving trying to distinguish between a lot of first-name-only acquaintances at the best of times, much less without knowing if Rick had made a drunken typo. He passed the R’s without seeing anything new.

Then his phone rang in his hand. He didn’t recognize the number.

He answered, “Hello?”

“Hey, Stan! It's Rick. You know, from the uh, the bar.”

“Oh, yeah, hey Rick,” Stan said, “glad you got my number.”

“Yeah? So you’re still uh, game sober then? Because I’ve got an itch to do some sketching today,” Rick said.

“Oh, of course,” Stan said, “when were you thinking?”

“What are you doing right now?” Rick asked.

Stan considered his rumbling stomach and itchy, sweaty body. Getting naked like that didn’t have much appeal.

“Modeling for you, apparently,” Stan said, “Provided you can spare food and a shower out of my paycheck.”

Rick laughed, “Busy morning? Yeah, th- _that_ can be arranged. Need a ride?”

“Yeah, pick me up by the library, would you?” Stan said.

“Yep, on the way.”

Rick hung up and Stan headed out of the building.

* * *

Rick picked him up at the bus loop behind the library on his small black bike again. In the light of day, with students waiting for their busses glancing curiously at the bike, it felt a weird to climb on and wrap his arms around Rick in a way it hadn’t last night.

Rick drove them off campus and out by the airport, past bleak stripmalls and boarded up gas stations. They went through the drive through at a McDonald’s. Rick paid for his McDouble and McChicken, and Stan clutched the bag to Rick’s chest.

They continued over the river and into an area which is a midpoint between suburb and city proper. Single family homes － probably rented to four at a time － were just barely giving way to larger apartment buildings. There were still large, lush trees growing from the sidewalk grates and back yards.

Rick parked the bike on the side of the road and they headed into a large white apartment building with chipped doric columns on the facade. Architectural details, all in white, were in the process of crumbling.

Rick punched in a code at the door and they headed in through the musty hallways and up to the second floor. They doubled back down the hall, walking along the length of the railing above the stairs to the front corner of the building.

Rick unlocked his apartment door, and they passed through a short hallway that barely contained the length of the open door before opening through a thin arch into Rick’s small studio. The first thing Stan saw was the mattress on the floor, directly across from the entrance. The fitted sheets were half off, exposing the blue quilting of the mattress to the air.

Not exactly fit for a magazine, but there was good light filtering in from well-sized windows along two walls. They went from knee height to inches of the ceiling, and warmed the room like a greenhouse. Along the rightmost wall was another doorframe, through which Stan could see a refrigerator in a dim kitchen. The corner between that doorframe and the window along the wall across from the door was dominated by an easel.

The pungent smell of oils emanated from the mess of the corner, dropcloth on the floor coated in colors, wall behind the easel covered in pinned up sketches. The easel had a painting still propped up － all grim colors and sharp, raised lines of paint in the impression of a city or a machine or something.

Stan didn’t care for it.

Rick caught him staring. “Yeah, it’s shit, right?”

Stan coughed, “Well, I uh, don’t know much about art －”

Rick scoffed, “Who knows anything about art. You can say it. Fuck this crap. El-elitist bullshit.”

“So, one of yours then?” Stan asked.

“Oh yeah. You know, I uh, I was actually kinda feeling the first one I did. Suggestion, meaning. Fuckin. Getting an impression to somebody without － you know. All the, the uh, extras,” Rick shrugged, “But uh, this is number fifty-seven! I’m bored.”

“You’ve done fifty-seven of these?” Stan asked, uncrinkling his McDonald’s bag. He looked around for a place to sit, and Rick gestured down beside his leg. Along the wall with the entryway was an aluminum bookshelf and beside it was a low beach chair, angled to face the bed. Its white fabric stretched across bleached-out wood. Stan sat down and felt too low and leaned back to really be comfortable with his food.

“Well, no,” Rick said, walking to the wall behind Stan. Stan craned his neck around to look as Rick pulled a propped up canvas from the floor to the left of the passage to the kitchen, “I’ve done uh, twenty or so? But my thesis advisor wants me to just uh, keep cranking them out. So I just f-fluff up the numbers for him, keep his dick hard.”

He handed Stan the painting, and Stan accepted it one handed. It was green and black. Reminded him of the Matrix.

“I dunno what to say here,” Stan said, and handed it back. With his hands free again, he opened up his bag and unwrapped the two sandwiches. He assembled them into one mega sandwich and tucked in.

“Yeah, you and the rest of the real world buddy,” Rick said, dropped the canvas carelessly back in its spot, “They sell like fuckin’ hotcakes though.”

Stan swallowed a mouthful, said, “Well, in _that_ case.”

Rick laughed, “Yeah, uh, problems we’d all like to have, right?”

Stan shrugged, and focused on his sandwich.

“Not to uh, be down on, the uh, _institution_ of abstraction or anything. I’m just. Pah. I don’t wanna fuckin do this,” Rick whined. He crossed to his bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress, knees practically up around his ears when his feet were flat on the floor. He was all leg, jeez.

Stan searched his memory for a way to empathize, but he hadn’t been in school in over a year and the notion of doing what a teacher wanted him to in any significant way had been out the window since second grade.

“Why’s your advisor callin’ the shots? Sounds like he doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Stan said, crumpling his wrappers together into the bag and balling it up. He looked around for a trash can, and Rick stood up again to take it from him.

“G-good question,” Rick said, heading into the dim kitchen. “H-here’s another one: want a beer?” Stan heard the thump of a trash can lid, and the crack of the seal on the fridge.

“What you got?”

“We’re at the bottom of the bottom, here, buddy, your choices are PBR or Budweiser,” Rick said.

“Eh, I could go for a Budweiser,” Stan said.

The fridge clapped closed and Rick handed him a cold can as he walked passed him. Rather than resume his place on the bed, Rick remained standing, towering uncomfortably above Stan as he leaned on the bookshelf to open his own beer. Stan instinctively scooted the beach chair back a little, and heard a clang － he looked down in surprise, and saw a gutted computer tower between the back of the chair and the wall next to the bookcase.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Rick said, “uh, you know how it is. Projects.”

“Sure,” said Stan, popping open his can, “who _can’t_ relate...”

Rick laughed, “Eh, it’s a bit of a mess.”

Stan snorted, “Well, I’m not gonna judge.” Out loud, anyways.

He craned his neck up to look at Rick, and his eye caught onto the small flat screen TV on the bookshelf － it’d been awhile since he’d gotten a chance to just veg out. “Seems like you’ve got all the components of a real adult home here.”

“Oh fuck yeah,” Rick said, “I know what the ladies like － I got, a uh, plant,” he rapped his knuckles on coffee can behind the TV on the bookcase, and grabbed it by the open rim to show Stan. A sad bean sprout was growing in it.

“This is my little wingman,” Rick said, “bitches l- _love_ plants. Also, extra trash can in the _bathroom_. Basically a palace.”

Stan laughed, choking on his beer a little, “Yeah, you think that’s doing it for you?”

“Oh hell yeah,” Rick said, “‘Course, the whole uh, sexy artist shtick really gets them going too － _yeah baby I’d love to paint you some time, take your clothes off,_ ” he laughed, and Stan felt a twinge of anxiety.

“So, am I actually getting paid then, or...?”

Rick laughed _uproariously_ , “Yeah, yeah, I don’t uh, usually frame that as a _business_ conversation, no. Yeah you’re getting paid.”

Stan grinned, “Now that’s what I like to hear! Point me at your shower and we can get started.”

“A-awesome,” Rick said, “right behind you.”

Stan leaned back in the beach chair to look. A little alcove was cut into the same wall as the entrance, to the right of the bookshelf, following the wall between the main room and the kitchen. He had already noticed it ended in an open closet, a curtain half hanging over a niche with a dresser shoved inside, but he hadn’t spotted the doorway along the left.

“Sweet,” he said, levering himself up out of the chair.

* * *

Stan left his clothes hung over the towel rack and wore the towel around his waist as he walked back out to the main room. His skin was soft and warm and he felt better than he had all day.

Rick had fixed the bed so the sheets were fully on, and he was rummaging through the drawer of a small, wheeled end table that sat between the mattress and the easel. Stan spotted one of those little wooden mannequins on the end table, one arm cocked on its hip and the other proudly displaying the back of its hand to the room. If it had fingers, it’d probably be flipping him off.

“You have this guy, what do you need me for?” Stan joked, coming up beside Rick to grab the mannequin.

Rick huffed, straightening back up from the drawer with a packet of pastels in hand and closing the drawer with his shin. Being upright, Stan realized how much he had walked directly into Rick’s personal space.

“Takes two to tango buddy, we gonna make a p- _orno_ you’ll need a partner － gonna get weird tonight!”

Stan laughed and backed up a little, mannequin in hand, “Were you ever gonna introduce us? We doing names?”

“Yeah that’s uh, Ronnie, he might not look like much but he’s got some serious wood, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Right, of course. _Ronnie_. I’m sure we’ll get along great,” he said, shaking one of the mannequin’s little hands with two fingers, “You two do a lot of work together?”

“Eh, not anymore,” Rick said, pulling a large sketchbook from behind the bookshelf, “we had a falling out, this is our big reunion.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“No. I just hit the point where anything I could get out of this thing I could get out of my head. He just k- _eeps_ me company now,” Rick said, settling down into the beach chair.

Stan sat the mannequin back on the end table and arranged it so it was doing a pelvic thrust, arms canted out and hands along the front of its hip to gesture at its _wood_.

“So, do you actually do like, real porn? Where’s the line on _erotic_ here?”

Rick drummed his fingers on his sketchbook, and Stan felt a little guilty for stalling.

“Well, uh, I mostly do, like, solo stuff. You know, jackin it － here, I’ll show you.”

He slid the sketchbook onto the lowermost shelf, on top of some textbooks, and clambered out of the chair. He headed back into the alcove and pulled aside the curtain, reaching up onto a high shelf that Stan hadn’t noticed for a stack of canvases. He carried them back to the main room, using the lowermost and largest canvas as a platform for the rest.

He sat down on the bed with them and impatiently patted the mattress next to him. Clutching at the towel, Stan sat down too.

Rick carelessly tossed several abstract pieces onto the mattress on his other side, revealing a stack of paintings wrapped in brown paper. He unwrapped the first of these - it was the body of a pale, freckled woman, one hand tangled in ginger pubic hair, the other tweaking a nipple. Stan recognized the sheets behind her as belonging to the mattress he was sitting on. Her toes were curled up, clutching at them. He felt a rough shot of arousal.

“Got a couple like that,” Rick said, passing over a painting of dark skinned man grasping at his dick through his underwear － utterly hairless. _Stan’s_ body hair had started growing in at twelve, and had never stopped.

“So, no uh, sex really?”

Rick grinned at him, “annnd my personal favorite,” he passed over a square canvas with three figures on it, all on their sides, spooning into each other.

He recognized the freckles of the woman on the outside, her pale arms wrapping around a slight, dark woman and vanishing between that body and the body of a well-muscled, tan man with dark body hair. The middle woman’s hand wrapped around his dick and she fucked into him with a strapon, while he twisted back to run a hand lightly up her side. It was zoomed in so that there were no faces. The canvas was dominated by their torsos, extending only down to their thighs. Stan felt his eyes guided to that moment of intimacy, the man reaching back.

“Nice right? Rare uh, artistic opportunity,” Rick said.

“Yeah,” Stan said, mouth feeling a little dry, “You’re uh, good. At this.”

“Yeah, thanks, I think so too,” Rick said, “Which is why it’s, it’s _infuriating_ that I’m doing _this_ bullshit for my thesis,” He grabbed one of the abstract pieces from beside him, and waved it illustratively.

“Anyways,” Rick said, “ready to －” he groaned, and Stan heard the buzzing of a phone as he stopped talking.

Rick pulled out a _flip phone_ and Stan felt a flutter of comradery pass through him. Rick looked at who was calling and pressed an external button, hanging up.

“What, no smartphone?” Stan asked.

“Said Mr. uh, Mr. Science with his f-fancy science phone,” Rick said, but his eyes flicked to the disassembled computer tower in the corner, “Had one, but I uh, had an idea a while ago that needed a screen, so it uh, got cannibalized. For the greater good...”

Rick coughed. “Anyways, I have an appointment.”

He gave Stan a serious look over.

“And I don’t have time to take you back to campus. Stan － you cool?”

“Definitely the, uh, coolest,” Stan said, not sure where Rick was going with this.

Rick laughed. “Yeah, sure. So, you smoke?”

Stan grinned. “If you don’t mind sharing.”

“Better uh, get your clothes on then,” Rick said. He reached over and squeezed Stan’s bare thigh, grinning.

Stan blushed and headed back to the bathroom, feeling light and clean.


	3. Chapter 3

They took the highway out west of the city to one of the suburbs to meet Rick’s dealer on a side road. Handoff completed, Rick watched the guy drive away and turned to Stan, leaning against the bike.

“You wanna uh, spend some time, en-enjoying the weather?”

Stan had lived his life in the Northeast, and he knew in this part of New York that warm weather into late September was worth savoring.

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

They got back on the bike and continued driving west, winding suburban roads turning more and more rural, until they passed the unattended information kiosk of a nature preserve. They parked in the gravel lot and Rick detached one of the side bags from the bike. He grinned at Stan, and led the way down a grassy hill and through a path into the forest.

The trees were still thick, leaves only just turning orange in patches, and the forest was shady and cool. Stan stuffed his hands in the pockets of the windbreaker and flexed them.

They went off the path, stepping over fallen branches and crushing down the occasional thorny bush until they found a clearing with large fallen branches up near the trunks of the trees. They sat down next to each other on one of them rather than the still dewy grass and leant up against a tree growing into several separate trunks.

Rick opened up the side saddle and pulled out the plastic zip-lock bag he’d received earlier along with a separate plastic bag of rolling papers, and a little metal grinder. He scooped out the weed from the plastic bag into the grinder with a bare hand, resealed the bag one-handed, and set it back down in the side saddle. He put the cap on the metal grinder, and twisted it rapidly, several times.

Stan helpfully pulled out one of the rolling papers, and handed it to Rick. Rick carefully laid out the paper on a thin thigh and tapped the weed out of the tin. He carefully pinched in on the paper with both hands on either end, and Stan found himself briefly fascinated by his long fingers as he rolled the paper back and forth, evening out the weed. He passed Rick a filter from the bag of papers, and Rick began the process of rolling up the paper.

When it was halfway rolled, Rick brought the paper up and ran his tongue along the exposed edge. He sealed it off and grinned; it was an elegantly done thing, evenly rolled, not lumpy. He dug around his pockets and produced a lighter. He lit up, took a long drag, and sighed.

Stan fidgeted, aware of the stretching silence. It had been comfortable, moments before, but he was abruptly anxious about the experience gap between them － sure, he _had_ smoked, but it was a social thing, in some circles. A job goes right, you gotta smoke up with the crew.

Then leave town before they realized you had more than your fair share of the take.

The people Stan typically smoked with weren’t all that bright, and too wrapped up in their own egos to notice a smiling con man coughing a little too hard.

Rick, though.

Rick offered him the joint, and Stan grinned a broad lie. He inhaled, held the smoke a little too much in his throat, itching. Exhaled in a stream of smoke. Didn’t cough.

Rick held his hand out for the joint, and Stan jokingly pulled away to take another drag. Rick laughed.

“Come on man, if I’d known you were, were gonna be a bitch about it I woulda rolled two,” he said.

“You spent all that time with it already,” Stan complained, tone light.

“Yeah, when exactly was that?” Rick said.

“When you were rolling it,” Stan said.

Rick laughed shortly, and Stan handed the joint back over. He enjoyed the way Rick closed his eyes softly when he inhaled.

He had stared a little, he realized － he averted his eyes, abruptly, looking over to the opposite side of the clearing.

“When did you start smoking?” Rick asked.

“When I was seventeen,” Stan said. It was true. Rick passed the joint back, and Stan took another drag.

“When’d you suck your first cock?”

Stan coughed, startled, and then couldn’t stop coughing as the smoke pricked at his throat uncontrolled.

“Oh, f-fuck,” he said, coughing, “what the hell, Rick?” He laughed, coughed some more.

Rick laughed at him.

“I had my first blunt at fourteen,” Rick said, grinning. Stan whistled, coughed again, and wondered how long ago that was.

“Just surrounded by good influences, huh,” Stan said.

“Oh yeah! Not you then, Mr. Straight Edge.”

“Please,” Stan said, laughing, “not all of us come out of the womb with a crack spoon in our mouths.”

“Oh, you got me there,” Rick said, “Born into r-real luxury, me.”

Stan felt that sense of companionship again, recognizing instinctively a similarity between the dusty pawnshop and unhappy father of his childhood and... wherever Rick came from. He leaned back into the trunk of the tree behind him more fully. Relaxed and settled a little more comfortably, his thigh sprawled up against Rick’s calf. Rick puffed on the joint, contemplatively. Apparently unaware of their proximity.

Stan made the decision to not call attention to it by moving his leg away. He held his hand out for the joint again.

They passed the joint back and forth, chatting about whatever and laughing at each other, rolling another every now and then, until they abruptly realized it was nearly dark. Sunset happened quickly; one minute they were stuffing everything back into the side saddle in the gloom and the next it was almost pitch black.

They stumbled back to the path using the light on Rick’s cruddy, ancient flip phone, laughing as they walked into each other in the dark. It took them longer than it had coming out and they definitely re-entered the path at a different point than they had left. It was hard to care about the specifics, though.

Rick rehooked the sidesaddle to the bike while Stan stood a little too close. They clambered back on the bike together, and Stan felt no misgivings about wrapping his arms around Rick in the dark.

They headed back east. At a stop light, Rick looked back at Stan.

“You need to go back to the dorms?” he asked.

His phone had been silent. “Nah, we can go to yours,” Stan said.

“Nice,” Rick said. The light changed.

They wound their way back into the city and pulled up in front of the white apartment building again.

“You up for modeling?” Rick asked as they headed up the stairs.

“ _Am_ I,” Stan said. The door had barely closed behind him before he shucked his windbreaker and shirt. Rick laughed as Stan tripped his way out of his pants.

“Feel free to chill on the bed,” Rick said, taking off his own jacket and grabbing his sketchbook from the shelf where he’d left it.

Stan grabbed some of the pillows and stuffed them in the corner, as Rick settled down into the beach chair. He reclined against them, and enjoyed the feeling of the sheets brushing against his leg hair.

“So, you want me to do something sexy?” Stan asked. He jokingly raised a leg in the air and pointed his toe, waggling his eyebrows.

Rick laughed, “Nah, uh, maybe in a bit. Just relax.”

“Alright,” Stan said, “Just let me know when you need me to unleash my enormous sexual machismo.”

Rick grinned at him as he dropped his leg and settled into a more relaxed pose. “You just stay there for a sec, gonna get a couple angles on this.”

“You got it, boss,” Stan said.

“You don’t uh, don’t bother being perfectly still,” Rick added, glancing up and back from his drawing pad, “I like a little bit of motion, it’s a kind, kinda, more natural, uh…” he trailed off into a distracted mutter.

“Oh good,” Stan said, “Because I am _really_ feeling this no pants thing right now.” He wiggled his legs into the sheets in satisfaction, and Rick smiled at him again. That felt good too.

“Did you always want to do this uh, art stuff?” Stan asked, looking at Rick’s face.

Rick looked up and met his eyes. He shrugged. “Not really sure there was ever a, uh, _want_ about it. It just happens. I’m good at it, so.”

Stan made a noise confirming he’d heard, and turned that information around in his head.

“Did you always want to do this _science_ stuff?” Rick asked.

Well. No. He’d never had an interest in science. Ever. Stan tried to remember the dreams he’d had when he was young, but all he could remember were the vague desires for creature comforts. Junk food, attention, the sea. His brother’s company.

“I just want to make money,” he answered, “and this is the way to do it, I guess.”

“Eh,” Rick said, “more than one way to make an omelette.”

“ _Is_ there?” Stan said, “I think it all comes down to broken eggs.”

“There’s always vegan egg substitute. Liquid yolk. Fuckin it up and just makin’ a-a, uh, frittata instead.”

Stan laughed, “That’s definitely what I’m doing － fucking it up and making a frittata.”

Rick laughed with him and Stan leaned back more into the pillows and smiled at the ceiling. He was coming down a little, the sensation of the sheets wasn’t doing it for him the way it had been. He still felt confident and warm, though.

“Alright,” Rick said, “You ready to uh, raise the temperature?”

“I’m game,” Stan said, “what did you have in mind?”

“If you could uh, just jack off for a bit, I’m thinking that’d be p-pretty great.”

Stan’s dick twitched at the mental image but his stomach clenched uncomfortably. “Right,” he said, “Yeah.”

He drummed his fingers on his hip.

“Need some lube?” Rick asked.

“Oh, definitely. Chafing ain’t sexy.”

“Right by that uh, lamp,” Rick said, gesturing with his charcoal to a desk lamp sitting on the floor by the mattress. Stan rolled onto his side a little and spotted the bottle － it had a pump. He dumped a little onto his right hand, and rolled back onto his back.

He stared at his limp dick, lube in hand.

He must have paused a little too long, because Rick asked, “Need some uh, help getting started there?”

His heart was abruptly in his throat, choking him.

Rick raised his hands in a show of peace, leaving his sketchbook balanced on his knees － his hands were smeared in charcoal and Stan had an abrupt vision of a charcoal handprint on the sheets, on his hips － and Rick said, “Don’t freak out, hands off. Just a little, ah-ah-ahhh, guidance.”

“Oh, uh, couldn’t hurt, I guess,” Stan said gruffly.

Rick grinned, leaned forward in his chair. He said, “Let it uh, drip a little － drizzle, even.”

“Right on my uh-”

“Yeah, right onto your dick. Slow.”

Stan hesitated for only a moment, searching Rick’s face quickly, before he obeyed, cupping his hand around the lube and tilting. The lube rolled easily off his hand, silky smooth, faster than he expected. He panicked, tilted his hand back to slow things down － and forgot a little, about it falling.

He jumped. It wasn’t warmed, and it was cold on his cock － that jumped too, hardened a bit more. He looked back up at Rick for direction.

Rick’s grin did it for him a little more than the lube did.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Rick said, “now uh, run your hand － same hand, keep the other one dry － up the bottom. Balls to tip － _yeaah_.” He glanced down at his sketchbook and scribbled something.

Stan obeyed, lingering with one finger on his slit as his cock filled out. He could feel his heart thudding in his lower abdomen and the big arteries of his thighs.

“Pump it,” Rick said, “You uh, you got something to work with now, _yeah._ ”

Stan wrapped his whole hand around his dick and tightened his fist － and when he looked up at Rick, there was a moment of accidental eye contact that stretched and _stretched_ , Rick’s eyes alert and wide. He was entirely hard.

They broke eye contact simultaneously, Rick looking down to his sketchbook and Stan to his own pleasure, stroking his cock. He caught Rick’s legs shifting out of the corner of his eye.

“Now with your other － the uh, your dry hand, just uh, reaaaal gentle, from your thigh to your belly － yeaah, right up those hairy fish legs, just tickle ‘em.”

Stan laughed, and felt an unexpected pulse under his lubed up hand, “Hairy fish legs? Fuckin － thanks, Rick.”

“What, am I not making you feel sexy?” Rick asked.

Stan choked down a moment of honesty, holding in _no, good job_ － and a moan.

Rick caught half of it anyways, said, “Make some noise, baby, it’ll look good on a canvas.”

Stan did. He groaned as his hand traced up his abdomen, dick pulsing harder under his hand. He heard the scratch of charcoal on paper and the groaning scrape of wood on wood as Rick’s beach chair moved briefly along the floor.

“You close? Hold on, I gotta get some more detail out of this.”

Stan heard Rick flipping the pages of his sketchbook, exhaled heavily as he kept pumping and stroking, loosening his grip around the head and tightening around the base. He realized he’d closed his eyes at some point.

He opened them again, and the room felt too bright, murky and too clear. He focused on Rick, leaning over his sketchbook.

“R－” He cleared his throat, it caught unexpectedly, “－Rick, I gotta－”

“Yeah,” Rick breathed, “Go ahead.”

Stan came, stroking his cock through it, all over his stomach, catching in his hair and pooling into his belly button. He breathed heavily, shuddered, and relaxed slowly back.

“Hold on, stay there for a sec,” Rick said, and Stan closed his eyes again. Rick was still drawing.

“Uhuh,” Stan said.

“We’ll uh, we’ll get you cleaned up in just a second, Stan,” Rick said, standing up.

Stan made an affirmative noise, blinked his eyes open. He turned to look at Rick and his eyes took too long to focus. Rick’s jeans were unbuttoned, he noted muzzily. That felt like an important detail.

“Hang in there buddy,” Rick said.

Stan closed his eyes again. He made a small, affirmative noise, and fell asleep.

* * *

“Stan. _Stan_. Come on.”

“Hm?”

“Washcloth.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Don’t fall back a － fine, fine, whatever. J- _ust_ budge over.”

“Mm.”

* * *

Light streamed in through the windows. Stan woke up with a crick in his neck and a washcloth in his hand. He looked down his body. His torso and arms were trapped under the sheet and the washcloth had left a damp spot. Rick was… asleep right next to him.

Stan quietly struggled out of the sheet and got his feet under him, crouching on the mattress. He carefully stepped over Rick and onto the floor. He spotted his jeans next to the bookcase and his shirt in the entryway. He pulled them on one at a time before heading into the bathroom. The door creaked as it closed and he winced.

He used the toilet, looked in the mirror as he washed his hands, and the embarrassment of the situation hit him all at once.

He put his warm, wet hands over his face and groaned as quietly as he could. His whole torso tensed up and he held in the urge to punch the wall. He leaned to the side, propped up against it. He balled up his fist and hit the fading bruise on his thigh. He hissed in frustration at the dull pain, relaxed his clenched fist, and dug his thumb in through his jeans.

Letting his cheek rest against the cool tile wall of the dim bathroom, the tension bled back to doable levels.

He wiped his hands off on the towel rack, opened the door, and nearly ran directly into Rick.

Rick had the curtain of his makeshift closet pulled aside, pinned to the wall with his knee. He was putting a small safe back with one hand, and holding a roll of cash with the other.

“Morning,” he said, and chucked the roll at Stan.

Stan scrambled to catch it at such close range, and Rick grinned at him. “I should, uh, should have docked you more than the McDonalds, treating me like a hotel.”

Stan flushed. “Ah, shit, Rick-”

“ _-But_ , ah, I got a lot of good material out of it,” Rick finished.

“Well, that’s uh － _good_ ,” Stan said, “Still though, uh, sorry ‘bout the bother.”

Rick’s lip curled and his nose wrinkled a little, “ _Yeah_ ,” he said, “You always pass right out after? Ladies must love that.”

“I get no complaints,” Stan said, crossing his arms and leaning back into the bathroom door frame. Technically true.

“Yeah, hookers typically don’t. _Zing!_ ” Rick laughed and headed into the kitchen.

  
Stan frowned.

“You gonna need a ride back to campus?” Rick called as Stan grabbed his windbreaker from the entryway. Stan felt like ice had gone through him.

He’d forgotten about Ford. Again. He wormed his hand into the pocket of the windbreaker and pulled out his phone, heart thudding heavily in his chest. It was dead. Shit.

“Shit!” Stan said.

“What’s up?” Rick asked, poking his head out of the kitchen.

“Phone’s dead.”

“Well you can charge it back at yours,” Rick said, traces of impatience in his voice.

“I gotta call my roommate,” Stan said.

“Haven’t gotten that key situation fixed?”

Stan shrugged, helplessly. He had made a _great_ impression today.

“Alright, know his number?”

“Who knows _anyones’_ number?” Stan asked. He had known Ford’s by heart, in middle and high school. Then Ford had gotten a new smartphone with a new number for college － probably right after Stan got _booted off the family plan_ , as it were.

“You got me there, S-Stan,” Rick said.

“You got a flip-phone too, right? You got a cable?”

“I have all kinds of cables,” Rick said, coming towards Stan.

Stan held his phone out hopefully and Rick took it from him to look at the port on the bottom.

“I do n- _ot_ have _that_ cable. What the fuck kind of phone even _is_ that?”

Stan shrugged, “I dunno, got it from a guy. Look, instead of campus, why don’t you just drop me off at, I dunno, Radioshack －”

“Yeah r-right, _Radioshack_. They’ll _definitely_ have your weird obscure phone cable _today_. What century are you living in, Stan?”

It certainly didn’t feel like the same one as everyone else, living out of his car, without a smartphone, without _Facebook_ , or Snapchat, or whatever-the- _fuck_ people were doing these days － _Facebook_.

“Oh! Uh, if you got a computer I could Facebook him,” Stan said.

Rick kicked backwards at the beach chair. It clanged against the gutted computer tower.

“Yeah, about that computer.”

“Right. Just drop me at the campus library.”

* * *

Rick dropped him off and told him he’d call. Stan wasn’t sure he believed him, given that Stan was such a _goddamn embarrassment_.

He walked up the path and into the library, and sat down at one of the computers. It needed a username and password.

He was willing to bet he could guess Ford’s password, but he had no idea what kind of username the school would have assigned him. Stan sighed heavily, trying to squash down the urge to be the crazy not-student in the campus library screaming and knocking over computers. He pressed against his forehead trying to relieve his tension headache － and looked up just in time to see Ford striding towards him across the library, a thunderous expression on his face. A beleaguered study group looked after him, seated at one of the tables for group work.

“Ford,” Stan began, standing up to meet him and trying to smile, to start things off on a lighter note.

“Stanley,” Ford said, not taking the bait, “what the hell is your problem? I was up until three waiting for you －”

“On a Friday night! Eyyy Sixxer, knew you’d catch up to the rest of the world eventually!”

“Shut _up_ , Stanley,” Ford hissed. Stanley did. Ford struggled for a moment.

“Why,” he began, “are you such an _irresponsible_ jackass! I was… I was worried about you!”

Stanley opened his mouth, and Ford made a shushing motion at him.

“Just _don’t,_ Stanley. We’re in a _library_ , so I’d _appreciate it_ if you could keep your big mouth _closed!”_

“ _Wow,_ ” Stan said.

“What were you doing last night?”

“Oh am I _allowed_ to talk now? My _big mouth_ won’t get us kicked out of the library?”

Ford looked at him stonily, arms crossed.

“...I went out for a job, made some money, but my phone died,” Stan said.

“A job huh?” Ford asked.

Stan pulled the roll of cash out of the pocket of his windbreaker to wave in front of his face, and Ford went bug-eyed. Ford wrapped his hands around Stan’s and pushed it down, hiding it.

“What did you _do?”_ He hissed, glancing back at his study group to see if they had caught it. Several heads snapped back to books in unison.

“Nothing _illegal_ , relax,” Stan said, tucking the cash back in his pocket.

“I _won’t_ relax until you stop needing to _specify_ that,” Ford said.

Stan rolled his eyes, and glanced at the time on the computer. “Look Ford, I got a shift coming up － can you let me into the dorm so I can grab my charger?”

Ford exhaled gustily. “Right,” he said, “Let’s go then. And you can put that… your _money_ away when we get there.”

“Right,” Stan said, “thanks _mom_ , wouldn’t want it to fall out of my pocket.”

Ford didn’t reply.

* * *

After his shift, he found an outlet in one of the academic buildings to charge his phone. There was a message waiting for him when his phone lit up.

_hey what u doing monday? － RS_

Stan smiled.


	4. Chapter 4

Stan rolled to a stop at the intersection. He sighed at the red light, and gripped the steering wheel harder, frustrated. The leather creaked under his hands. He absentmindedly fiddled with the rear view mirror. He shifted in his seat. Let one hand dangle out the open window.

The light changed. He pulled forward.

Then the world slammed to the left without him in crunching metal and shattering glass.

He had driven the Stanley-mobile for years, and had never had this feeling of total dissociation, disconnected from control as the car moved without his direction.

The door collapsed into his side. Movement stopped. Ears ringing, he blinked at the bright fog of the world. Numb. Before his head cleared, a fist rushed at him.

He barely caught the glint of a bulky ring before he wrenched himself awake at the impact.

In the dark of Ford’s dorm, lying on the linoleum with only thin sheets to soften them, Stan tried to scream. He tried to sit up, but some part of him must have still been caught in the dream, and nothing but a thin wheeze came from his still torso.

The moment passed and he dragged in a gasping breath and rolled over. He panted, shaking, half on his side, half propped on his forearm. He became aware enough to be conscious of waking Ford or Fiddleford, and was glad he hasn't managed to shout. The two felt a million miles away, barely three feet above him in their beds.

He touched his face, fingers catching on the healing edge of one of the cuts the ring had left. It was little more than a scrape now, really. Under flattering light.

He laid back down again, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, to alleviate the building feeling of pressure there. The gesture didn't touch the tightness in his lungs. He took another shaky breath.

He realized that his phone was lit up and buzzing, right next to his head where he had left it. His eyes darted up to the beds above him, to Fiddleford’s arm hanging loosely off his bed, and he heard Ford’s easy, quiet breath from the other. He wouldn't wake them.

He flipped open the phone. “What?” He asked, quietly. “You can't need a model now?”

He had posed for Rick a couple more times since the night they got high together the first time, and it had been fun to hang around someone who could relax occasionally, but Stan had thought Rick kept pretty regular hours.

“What are you doing?” Rick asked.

“Nothing, it's _fucking four AM_. What are _you_ doing?” Stan said.

“Going to the beach. You in?”

Stan considered the damp chill that was typical before dawn, and the cold humidity of the beach in October. He considered the aching feeling through his whole body, and his bed on the linoleum floor.

He couldn't think of anything to keep him there.

“Yeah, sure.”

* * *

Rick rolled up on his motorcycle half an hour later, and wordlessly handed Stan the helmet off his head, as had become usual. Stan was already starting to feel a little chilled from the damp air, so he hustled onto the back of the motorcycle and wrapped his arms around Rick eagerly.

Rick’s leather jacket was buttery soft. Stan was more than a little jealous. His borrowed windbreaker wasn’t really cutting it, and his winter jacket was still in the trunk of his car. No longer smashed up, but still out of his reach until he paid off the mechanic.

Rick took his foot off the ground, and they swerved oddly as they got up to speed. Stan began to feel a little worried.

“Rick?” he asked. It was muffled by the helmet and the wind, as Rick tore through the intersection between the parking lots without stopping. That wasn’t unusual either, though.

Rick didn’t hear him. Stan tightened his grip.

The trip to the beach took them on the dead highways, no traffic to interrupt. Rick rode straight down the dotted lines between lanes. When the highway ended, they took a quiet road north through a sequence of roundabouts, which Rick cut dangerously close on the bike, practically driving through the middle.

Not long after, they pulled into a rough parking lot at the side of the road. There was a dropoff lined with trees, and through them Stan could just see the misty vastness of the lake. Rick grabbed his bag from the side-saddles and led him to a small gap in the trees. They clambered down the steep embankment to the thin beach.

Rick thrust a beer bottle at him, already opened, “Here,” he said, “let’s get this party started!”

Stan peered at his face － Rick was definitely already drunk. He felt a brief moment of retrospective terror, remembering that odd wobble on the bike before they even left the parking lot - but he forced it down. Rick looked at him expectantly, a wry smile on his face. He swayed slightly in the sand.

Stan laughed, and held his bottle up － they clinked their bottles together, and Stan took a long drink.

“What else do you have in that bag?” Stan asked, “Bring anything to do but drink?”

“Anything to _do?_ Stan you’ve got, you’ve got this, this, beautiful expanse of nature around you and you want something to _do?_ ” Rick asks, teasingly.

“Oh, so you’re thinking we’re going swimming then, huh?” Stan asks, advancing on Rick.

“Oh no, oh no,” Rick said, laughing and stumbling backwards, “it’s, it’s fucking-”

“October, yeah, I know, you weirdo,” Stan said, “you’re the one who took us to the beach, thought you wanted to enjoy some nature!”

The beach was too thin for Rick to be completely out of range, and Stan stomped into the water － it was bone chillingly cold and he felt instant regret. But he kicked in Rick’s direction, splashing, and Rick screamed and laughed as it caught his face. The feeling subsided.

“You’ll get － you’ll get fucking frostbite you idiot,” Rick laughed, “get out of there.”

Stan laughed, and headed back to Rick － but he stooped with cupped hands along the way, shoveling water at Rick again. Rick sputtered as it caught his pant leg.

“ _Asshole!_ ” he said, “get your shoes off.”

Stan nodded, and headed for a rock. He peeled his shoes and socks off. He flexed his damp, cold toes in the sand, and wrinkled his nose － that was definitely a bad idea. Funny though.

Rick set his bag down next to Stan’s rock, “Towel,” he said.

Stan nodded, and rooted through the bag. He pulled out the towel, and wiped at his feet.

He looked back up, and saw Rick settling down on a rock across from him, beer in one hand, sketchbook and pencils in the other.

“Really, Rick? Come on,” he said.

“You gonna take-take the rest off?” Rick asked.

“No way,” Stan said, “I thought we were gonna do something fun.”

“There’s more beer in the bag, h-help yourself,” Rick said, distantly, already sketching something.

“Sure, _fun_ ,” Stan muttered.

“Relax, you’ll get paid,” Rick said.

Stan pulled another beer out of the bag, and managed to sit still for maybe twenty minutes. But he was bored - it was one thing when he’d had the anxiety of the entire class staring at him to occupy him, but when he’d modeled for just Rick…

Well, he’d gotten used to it being kind of fun. It wasn’t the intense experience of the first time, every time. Often, he would watch TV while Rick drew, or they’d chat - or Rick would buy him a burger, and he’d get naked and eat while Rick sketched.

He didn’t have a burger, there was no TV in sight, and Rick didn’t seem chatty.

“Rick, come on － I don’t even care how much I’m getting paid, let's just, you know, hang out,” he said.

Rick looked up at him, expression grim. For a dangerous moment, Stan wondered what he did wrong, but then Rick smiled.

“Yeah, alright, alright, whatever － pass me my bag.”

Stan handed it to him, and Rick stuffed his sketchbook out of sight without sharing what he’d drawn. It wasn’t unusual. Sometimes, Rick would turn his sketchbook around, interrupt Stan watching TV to reveal that he’d done a detailed drawing of Stan’s soft cock － and his hand, because he’d caught Stan scratching his balls, and that was just _hilarious_.

Stan hadn’t seen a finished painting since Rick had shown him what had become of that first night’s sketch － a beautiful, full color oil painting. Of Stan masturbating. His head had been cropped out, anyways. He’d asked sarcastically if it was going in his thesis show, and Rick had just scoffed － why would anything he _liked_ be in his thesis show, he had asked.

Well, Stan could kind of see why not. He thought, anyways. He didn’t know much about art, but he was pretty sure it was supposed to be like, portraits, or, he didn't know, naked ladies with vases, maybe?

Rick had weird taste, not much for naked ladies or portraits － Stan hadn’t seen anything else like that oddly flattering napkin portrait Rick had done of him at the bar. The closest he’d gotten to that was Stan’s fully rendered nose being picked by Stan’s fully rendered finger. Nothing else. Just nose and finger, inside the vague lines of the shape of his face. No eyes.

That had actually been pretty funny. All that talent. Picking a nose.

“Alright, alright, fine, what do you want to do?” Rick asked.

It was usually easier to talk to Rick than this. But hell, nobody was easy all the time, probably.

“You all right there?” Stan asked.

Rick gave him an incredulous look, and drained the remainder of his beer. He burped in Stan’s face.

Stan laughed, and flapped his hand at the air, “You smell like a brewery. Let’s find something to do. Out in _nature_ , you twat.”

Stan took off walking down the beach. He heard the zip of Rick’s bag, the clink of another bottle, and the shifting of the sand as Rick caught up with him. He smiled.

He hip-checked Rick, and Rick stumbled into the water, “Son of a _bitch!_ ” Rick shouted, shoes and pant cuffs instantly soaked.

Rick tore out of the water and pulled at Stan’s arm, trying to tug him in with him.

Stan had a moment where he knew he could remain totally immovable － but instead, he allowed Rick to pull him along, bare feet plunging into the water. He used the momentum to make stooping down appear natural and wrapped an arm around the back of one of Rick’s wet knees.

He picked Rick up entirely, and tilted Rick head first back towards the water. Rick shouted, and Stan stopped abruptly － Rick’s head bare inches from the water and his feet kicking ineffectually up above Stan’s shoulders.

Stan grinned at him like an idiot, and Rick laughed.

“You are such a － such a fucking tool!” Rick said.

Stan just laughed, and walked Rick back to shore in a bridal carry.

He set Rick down on the sand, and they trekked together to another rock. Rick peeled off his socks and shoes while Stan started rolling up his pant legs.

“You are s- _strong_ ,” Rick said.

“I worked the docks a lot,” Stan said.

“Yeah, when was that?” Rick asked curiously, “Thought you STEM types got all those cushy internships.”

Oh. Right.

“Oh, you know, before… Before college,” Stan said.

Rick hummed and finished another beer.

“No shame in sta-sta- _art_ ing late, Stan,” Rick burped, “I, I didn't get started til I almost got sent to jail for meth.”

“Uh,” Stan said.

“Bet I could lift you,” Rick said.

“Sure,” Stan said, glad to be on a new topic, “I ain't taking that bet.”

“Come on, come on,” Rick said, standing up, “get up, I'll get you off the ground, I got, I got experience getting people high.”

“I'm not doubting you,” Stan laughed, “I just think being held up by your _bony twigs_ would hurt.”

“Oh whatever, we can't all have ha-ham-hocks for hands.”

“ _What?_ ” Stan laughed.

“You heard me,” Rick muttered, occupied by rummaging through his bag for another beer. His old one empty in the sand.

That was － what? One, two, three, _four?_

And Stan had had two. That was a whole six pack, plus whatever Rick had had before he came.

Stan reached for the bag, and Rick handed it over. He was already midway through the beer, his head tilting slowly back as he drank, throat bobbing.

Stan frowned, and rooted through the bag － they were definitely out of beer. _Good_.

Rick finished his beer, and chucked the bottle up the beach. It shattered on a rock, and Stan jumped, remembering a shower of glass and the crunch of metal.

“Hey pass me another beer?” Rick asked.

“That was the last one pal, you heard of sharing?” Stan said, tone light. Rick had _just_ taken the last one. Did he not notice?

“Oh, _boooo_ ,” Rick said, giving Stan a thumbs down, “well there's more at my place, could, could stand to dry off anyways.”

He kicked his sandy, almost blue feet illustratively － and nearly lost his footing.

No way. Stan wasn't sure they could even make it back up the embankment like this, much less _home_ on a _motorcycle_. With one helmet between the two of them.

No way.

“But Rick, we've got all this _nature_ to enjoy,” he laughed.

“Nature is cold and-and stupid, striving towards progress by-by sheer fucking chance. Let's go enjoy the forward march of industrial science. Like, uh, central heating. And beer,” Rick said, patting his pockets, looking for his keys.

“Rick I just don't uh,” Stan hesitated.

“You got something to, to say, Stan?” Rick asked, rooting through his jeans determinedly.

Stan remembered the press of Rick's keys against his stomach when he pretended to dunk him.

“If you, if, my keys are in the fucking lake I'm going to be _pissed_ ,” Rick said.

Stan was pretty sure they were just in his jacket pocket.

“Rick I don't think you should drive,” Stan said.

Rick looked at him and Stan was nearly startled back into the lake at his expression.

“ _Relax_ , Stan,” Rick said, tone clipped, “I'm fine, we’ll get home in one piece.”

Rick started towards the trees － not even towards a particular gap － and Stan intercepted him, arm wrapping around his middle.

“You don't even know where your keys are!” He laughed.

Rick just frowned, “You know where I put them right? You remember. Just tell me － did I put them in the, the fucking bag? That would have, have been a good idea...”

Rick spun around and sat down in the sand to go through his bag. Stan smoothly slid his hand back out of Rick’s pocket as he went.

Rick dug through the bag without method, pulled the towel out and put it back in, set the cardboard remnants of the six pack free in the wind － and then he looked at Stan.

And spotted his keys in Stan’s hand. He zipped his bag and stood up, groaning.

“Aww Stt-Staaan, come, come on… I just wanna go home.”

Stan grimaced, and shifted Rick’s pilfered keys in his hand. In his head, he recalled the world moving abruptly on its own, a spray of glass and crunch of metal, and saw Rick splattered across pavement. The keys clinked as he decisively stuck them in his pocket.

Rick swayed and grabbed for his keys without much luck, lurching drunkenly into Stan’s personal space. “Alright, alright, fine”, he said, more of his weight on Stan than on his own feet, “you drive.”

“What?” Stan laughed, thrown by the sudden shift in conversation, and his head swimming with alcohol. “I can’t ride a bike sober, never mind now.”

“Sure you can,” Rick said, leaning into Stan. He stepped behind Stan, still using him as a balance, and then he pressed close. Stan wasn’t generally that aware of how much taller than him Rick was, but at that moment, a couple of inches felt very important.

Rick’s breath was hot on the shell of his ear. “I could ride bitch, just like this,” he said, his voice just barely a little too loud, a little too rough. His arms snaked around Stan’s torso, and his hands pressed in just under the bones of Stan’s hips, fingers sneaking towards Stan’s groin overtop of his jeans.

Stan heated up right with Rick’s breath. “Um,” he said.

Rick pressed a little harder at Stan’s hips, and moved impossibly closer into his space. His nose pressed in behind Stan’s ear, and he felt a little huff of breath at Rick’s exhale.

Abruptly, Stan felt rooted to the beach by his bare sandy feet. Something was off. Ricks left hand was flat against Stan’s stomach now, pressing at the button of his jeans, but his right was still at his hip - and cupped oddly. He had taken back his keys.

All the pleasant heat that had been building in his head and groin moved to his cheeks and fists. He hooked his foot around Rick’s ankle and abruptly stepped forward while he jerked his torso and elbows back, into Rick’s chest.

Drunk as he was, Rick fell easily to the beach, sputtering.

“Fuck you, Rick!” Stan kicked at the beach angrily, and Rick put his hands up to guard his eyes as sand flew. Stan paced away a few steps, and rubbed at his burning cheeks. “Fuck you,” he grumbled, with less conviction. He looked up the embankment, towards the rough parking lot where Rick’s bike had been parked.

He heard Rick breathing oddly, and when he looked back, Rick was struggling against the shifting sand and his own drunkenness to get back to his feet.

“God _dammit_ , Rick!” He rushed back to Rick, and his foot caught. He stumbled, and managed to take Rick with him as he fell to the sand. “We’re not getting on your shitty bike!”

Rick struggled, trying to squirm away along the sand. “Fine, we fuck － fuckin _we_ nothing jackass, you can stay right here!”

“ _We_ can stay right here, asshole, just calm down!” Stan pressed down on the small of Rick’s back － first with a hand and then his legs, as he moved up － and used his weight to pin him to the beach.

“Fuck off!”

“Stop being such a dick!” Stan grit his teeth in frustration as Rick made another attempt to buck him off. He exhaled gustily as Rick kept squirming － he didn’t want to hurt him, but it really seemed like he was _angling_ to get hurt.

Stan had a sudden thought, and smiled. He brought a hand lightly to Rick’s side, and Rick tensed up all at once, laughing.

“You definitely aren't gonna drive if you can't even fight back,” Stan said.

Rick laughed helplessly, batting at Stan’s hands, “Al-alright I give I give, uncle, uncle.”

Stan sat back on his knees and illustratively held his hands up. Rick laughed breathlessly a couple more times.

“Psych!” Rick yelled, and lunged upwards, hands worming their way inside Stan’s windbreaker, straight to his armpits.

Stan laughed － more with relief than anything else － and let Rick win for a bit.

* * *

Rick seemed like he was just getting more drunk over the next hour, but they were both shivering and Stan had sobered up. He felt brave enough to try driving the bike.

They argued over who was going to wear the helmet - Stan felt sick with guilt at thought of what might happen if he hit a patch of gravel or something else he wasn't prepared for. But Rick shoved the helmet into his gut and told him that if Stan wasn't going to wear it they'd leave it at the beach.

Stan walked the bike out of the gravel parking lot to the road. He slung his leg over, and tried revving the motor. He felt the bike start to jump under him, and backed off. Rick slid on behind him, and wrapped his arms around Stan’s middle. He laid his head down on Stan’s shoulder, just behind his neck.

Stan took a break from anxiety over the bike to remember Rick’s hot breath on his ear. A whole different type of anxiety churned in his stomach.

“It'll be easier when, when you get up to speed,” Rick said, “practically keep itself up. _Physics_.”

Stan snorted doubtfully, but started them down the road.

* * *

They made it home － er, to Rick’s apartment － alive and unhurt.

Rick seemed to have sunk back into whatever melancholy had occupied him at the beach. Stan propped him up as they walked up to his apartment.

Stan unlocked the door with Rick’s keys.

They walked through the short hallway-turned-closet, intent on the mattress just opposite. The fitted sheet was half pulled off again, but with the dawn light filtering through the windows Stan figured they could wait to fix it. It looked very inviting as-is.

He glanced up and was struck by how much sketching Rick had done since the last time he was there.

The easel in the corner was empty, but all behind it and on the wall over the mattress were charcoal portraits.

Stan spotted three different people repeated across the room. He was especially struck by a portrait right at eye height, in between the windows along the back wall. A woman looking back over her shoulder, the impression of a dimple just starting in her cheek, a hand brushing a curl behind her ear.

Stan felt a deep emptiness in his stomach, and glanced over to Rick. He was staring at the portraits too.

Abruptly, Rick strode across to the wall, and tore the portrait off the wall. He crumpled it, one handed, and reached for another. A tanned man with dark, curly hair and a shy but haughty smile － crumpled. And another. An East Indian woman with a pixie cut and her head thrown back in an open mouthed laugh － crumpled.

One by one dozens of sketches came down off the wall, destroyed before Stan could take them in.

Stan stared as Rick continued to pull them down with both hands, clearing the one wall as quickly as possible and heading to another.

When the walls were clear, he kicked some of the crumpled papers off the bed, shucked his soggy clothes, and sat down to crawl in.

“You gonna sleep or what?” Rick asked, staring at the wall.

Stan nodded, haltingly, and undressed. He crawled in behind Rick, careful not to touch. It was difficult. He hadn’t spent the night since that first time.

It was only a full size mattress, and Rick was definitely taking up his fair share － his fair share being all of it, given it was his bed.

Stan settled in, and stared at the back of Rick's head. The silence felt wrong.

“People suck,” Rick said, “relationships are a waste of time － just, just, disposable, replaceable. Fuck it.”

He rolled over, face abruptly close to Stan’s.

“You, you know what I'm talking about Stan － people just, just, you get close, they fuck you over － or, or, vice versa.”

Rick stared at him intensely. Stan nodded.

“Even if you've been close your whole life,” Stan said, “doesn’t matter － _disposable_ , you're right.”

Rick nodded, “well I’ll, I'll, I’ll fucking tell you － I'm done with that shit. Not worth it,” he rolled back over to face the wall again.

Stan stared at the shell of his ear and remembered Rick’s breath on his own. That was a pretty direct way to say _don’t read into it_.

“Right,” Stan said, “good call.”

Rick didn't answer. His breath was evening out, probably asleep.

Stan felt blisteringly alone.

* * *

He woke up in the early afternoon when Rick dropped something in the kitchen.

He startled awake at the noise － rolled over in a panic and felt sick at the motion, transported briefly as the world moved around him － and his hand touched the cold wood floor as he went halfway off the mattress.

Rick leaned through the archway to the kitchen, wearing boxers and a t-shirt, “Sorry － nothing in the fridge. Or the, the uh cabinets, I guess.”

“Oh,” Stan said, “yeah. Uh, food.”

He propped himself up with his elbows on the wood floor, the rest of his body still under the covers. He rubbed his hands over his face, and looked blearily at the room. The floors had been swept clear of the crumpled papers. There was only errant smudges of charcoal on the walls to show there was ever anything there.

Stan frowned. He felt… something. He wanted to know who those people were, and he wasn’t sure why he cared. Rick gave him a funny look, and turned back to look through the refrigerator again.

Stan stared at Rick, his eye catching at Rick’s throat, the back of his ear － and remembered that moment on the beach again, when their closeness had felt very different. And then. Well.

That was really shitty.

“Hey,” Rick said, coming back to the archway, “about yesterday － I was out of line, it was, was, uh, uncool of me. Did not plan that little, uh, outing well at all. You shouldn’t, shouldn’t have to uh, take care of my drunk ass, haha.”

Stan nodded slowly and mulled that over.

“You know,” Stan said after a moment, “it was uh － I dunno. We had some fun, that was all fine. But. It was a real dick move comin’ on like you wanted to fuck me just to get your keys.”

“I do want to fuck you,” Rick said, “also － ha, dick move. Nice.”

Stan felt his face heating up.

“That － that doesn’t make it okay to _manipulate_ me with,” Stan said.

Rick frowned, “Yeah, hey, I already apologized. But look, uh, while, while we’re on the subject, let’s uh, let’s talk about this － why haven’t we fucked?”

Stan coughed, “I uh － what?”

“Yeah － Stan, don’t, don’t fuckin bullshit me on this man, you want to fuck, I want to fuck, we’re buddies － let’s uh, why haven’t we put that shit together, right?”

“That’s － screw you, Rick,” Stan said.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m _saying_ ,” Rick laughed.

“No, shut up and _listen_ for a second － I might _－ might!_  Want to, to _sleep_ with you, but I definitely don’t want to see you _fucked up on the pavement_ , alright you asshole? You can’t, you can’t fuck your way out of me caring－” Stan saw a blip of an expression on Rick’s face at his slip, and backpedaled hastily, “uh, caring about _dying in a fiery wreck_ on your idiot bike.”

Rick didn’t look impressed.

“Look, Stan, I’ve been uh, been trying to be cool about that, but uh, you can take your concern and shove it up your ass － I was f-fine to drive. I don’t need a, a _nagging_ _girlfriend_ to look after me.”

“Right, good, because I’m _not_ ,” Stan said, reaching out for his pants.

“What, are you _mad?_ ” Rick asked as Stan started shuffling back into clothes.

“No!” Stan shouted, “What could there be to be _mad_ about!”

Stan couldn’t think of anything. He really, honestly, could not. That was the worst part.

“Well, I’m still on that uh, that uh, _why haven’t we fucked_ question － you could be, could be feeling a bit pent up,” Rick said.

“Nope!” Stan said, “I am just _peachy!_ ”

“Oh, fuck off,” Rick said, irritated, “I don’t need this bullshit, if you’ve got something to say, you can fuckin, fuckin say it.”

“I am fucking off _right now_ , don’t worry about it,” Stan said, shoving his feet into his sneakers, crushing the heel down rather than taking the time to untie them.

“Don’t want some, uh, breakfast?” Rick asked.

“You said there wasn’t any,” Stan said, heading to the door.

“Well, you know, Denny’s － _pancakes_ ,” Rick said, trailing after him.

“Nah,” Stan said.

“A ride?” Rick asked.

“Good weather, could do with a walk! See you later!” Stan let the door shut behind him.

It wasn’t really good weather, and it was a _long_ walk back to campus. October was as cold as could be expected － no snow, but dry leaves skittered across the pavement and his breath misted in front of his face.

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of Ford’s windbreaker, and wished he had his winter jacket back.

He wished he knew why he was even mad.


	5. Chapter 5

Rick hadn’t called him for a few weeks. After the first couple of days had passed, Stan had tentatively sent him two or three texts, and called once, with no reply.

He found that his cash reserves magically rose a lot faster when he wasn’t going out to bars with Rick. But now he was _really_ bored.

Halloween came and went, and he wondered if Rick had done anything for it. Ford certainly hadn’t.

He picked up more shifts at the various campus eateries, tried to find more odd jobs - even went to the library to use the computers there. Anything to keep out of Ford’s way.

He had been feeling more and more underfoot, so he stayed out as long as he could, sometimes until 2 AM, waiting for Ford to call and say he was on his way back to the dorm, did he need to be let in?

It was easier to avoid the sharp silence that filled the room when they were both in it.

Especially bad were the times when Fiddleford was in the room too. Nothing against Fidds, he was honestly the sweetest guy Stan had ever met - and Stan had doubts about the _real_ reason Ford felt _guilty_ enough to let him stay. But, Fiddleford tried to force conversation. Wanted Stan to be involved. Wanted to help out however he could. It wasn’t pleasant, when Ford was glaring at him, waiting to leave for class until he was sure Stan wasn’t going to mess up something of Fidds’ somehow.

Just that morning, as Ford and Fidds had gotten ready for the day, stepping over Stan’s makeshift bed on the floor, Fiddleford baited him into talking about another part time job Stan had found on a notice board. Some start-up jackasses needed people to use their new social media site, and would pay even in half hour blocks, if you just made some posts and emailed them your hours. It was a nice way to fill in bits of time at the library.

Fiddleford had thought that was just the _neatest_ , and offered that Stan could use his laptop if he wanted to stay comfy in the dorm. Ford had snapped his gaze over to Fiddleford in horror.

Stan had never felt _comfy in the dorm_ , and would have preferred to leave as soon as possible. He supposed, with how much time Fidds spent out at the labs, that not leaving sounded pretty good to him. Stan? Not so much, thanks.

But under Fidds expectant gaze, Stan had taken the computer off his hands, and then sat with him on Fidds’ bed so that he could set him up with a password.

“Fiddleford, I’m certain Stanley could use the computers in the library,” Ford had said, grumpily sitting back down on his own bed.

“Nonsense, Ford. Got a perfectly good laptop right here, and it won’t be no good to me today,” Fiddleford had replied.

Which all led up to this moment: Fidds gone for class, Stan ticking away at the keyboard with two fingers, and _Ford_ refusing to leave for his study group until Stan stopped touching Fidds’ stuff.

Stan felt Ford’s tension rise every time he slowly picked at a key, one finger at a time. He’d never learned to type properly, and he knew it drove Ford crazy. But what else was he going to do?

He was about to give it up for a bad job, when his phone started buzzing in his pocket.

He pulled out the ancient flip phone, and saw Rick’s name on the outside screen. He felt like he heard his own heartbeat as he opened the phone.

“ _What_.”

“Wanna make some money?” Rick asked, like he hadn’t been ignoring Stan for _weeks_.

“If you want me naked again better be a _lot_ of money.” Stan said, poking fiercely at the keyboard. On the opposite side of the room, Ford sputtered.

“Two hundred do-AAllers work for you? But also you can keep － keep your clothes on, Stanley. I need an e-e-extra set of hands on a project.”

Stan considered, staring unseeingly at the laptop screen. He could keep being mad. Never see Rick again. Not make two hundred dollars.

 _Or_.

“Yeah alright.”

“Nice － I’ll be outside the dorm in half an hour.”

Stan flipped his phone shut, and felt lighter than he had in weeks - Rick had sounded pleased, and he was gonna get out of the dorm and make some money. Things were looking up!

Stan looked up, and met Ford’s wide-eyed gaze. Oh. Right. “What?”

“ _What?_ ” Ford repeated, “What are you _doing?_ ‘If you want me _naked_ again _?’ Again!?_ ”

Stan’s cheeks heated up. “It’s none of your business!” He snapped.

“It is _certainly_ my business when you’ve been working under _my name!_ ” Ford said, white faced.

“Artist's model is the best paying job on campus!” Stan said. “And it’s not like they’re writing _oh,_ this is _Stanford Pines with his dick out_ on the canvas!”

“Is that how you talk to the student employment office?!” Ford looked impossibly more horrified.

Stan felt abruptly bashful. “No, that was just,” he struggled, “another student, wanted more model time.”

Ford searched his face, mouth a hard line.

“It’s all very tasteful.” Stan said. “It’s, yanno, _art_. You like art, right?”

He looked doubtful.

Stan sighed. “Look. Ford. I’m just trying to get out of your way. I know it’s… _tough_ having me here. This’ll get me outta here faster.” _And then they’d never have to see each other again_.

Stan carefully set Fiddleford’s computer down at his desk, and lightly patted the lid.

“Well, you’re right about _that_ ,” Ford muttered, “It is _tough_.”

Stan frowned. He brushed past Ford’s legs, and stooped down to get his charging cable from the outlet under Ford’s bed. He looped up the wires and pocketed it. “I’ll see you later,” he said. He headed out the door.

He counted it as a win when the door slammed shut between them before Ford could get in the last word.

* * *

Stan was already outside when Rick picked him up, patting the seat of the bike behind him without ever letting the motor quiet down enough to say something.

It was a fifteen minute ride over to the suburban high school where Rick was working on his project. He led Stan in through a side door, down a hallway tiled brown, and into an auditorium.

Stan looked down past the rows of blue metal seats to the stage. A large white canvas hung behind it, lines painted across it in the outlines of a cityscape. The Stage itself had several wooden pieces sitting on tarps, likewise with outlines painted over white, but no color.

“Alllright,” Rick said, the first thing he’d said to Stan in _weeks_ , “All I need you to do is put the colors I say inside the lines.”

“Right, cool,” Stan said, eyes zeroing in on the ladders in front of the backdrop.

“Don’t stress about it,” Rick said, “No thinking involved.”

“Right,” Stan said.

“Not scared of heights are you?” Rick asked, laughing and heading down the aisle to the stage.

“I have never been scared in my life,” Stan said.

Stan spent the next several hours up and down a ladder, trying desperately to avoid looking down while painting in the close face of a building in navy, with yellows for lit up windows. They began in silence, with Stan only speaking to Rick when he needed more direction, but even as his shoulders started locking up from pain and fear, he started to feel more loose and companionable. Seeing Rick with paint on his face and a look of intense concentration he couldn’t help but laugh, and Rick smiled at him.

Rick worked on the blues and purples of the skies from another ladder, and they joked back and forth. Stan started drawing his own shapes inside the bounds, before filling them in with navy. He got down off the ladder, ostensibly to use the bathroom, but really to give Rick a chance to notice that Stan had done an unflattering stick portrait of him.

When he got back, Rick asked, “Hey, who’s the artist here?” But he was smiling when he said it.

“You don’t like it?” Stan called up to Rick from the floor, gesturing at the spiky, frowny figure outlined in a rough navy brush, “I’m hurt, I always say nice stuff about your shit.”

“Oh, ex _cuse_ me,” Rick laughed, “It’s just such a, a, expressionist masterpiece. Got a real, real _Basquiat_ vibe going. It was an-an earnest question, didn’t realize I was, uh, in the presence of the artist himself.”

Stan went back up the ladder.

Around five, high school students began to filter into the auditorium, chattering. A sizeable crowd amassed, until the director arrived to break them into groups, running lines or practicing dances.

Stan wondered at them, a little. He wasn’t that much older than them, but his life experiences were so far removed from them already. Most of them here would probably at least finish high school, extracurricular types and all. He’d played hooky too much to keep up with any himself.

A group of them passed by the base of the ladder, heading for backstage, and jostled it. Stan gripped white knuckled at the rungs and any companionship he had felt evaporated. The stage swam below him and he felt a full bead of sweat trickling down his neck.

“Fucking children,” Rick called across to him above the noise of the students.

Stan wondered how old Rick was.

Stan wondered how old Rick thought _he_ was. Not eighteen.

They made significant progress, but there was a strip unfinished at the top, out of reach from the ladders. Rick shrugged.

“I’ll get the tech crew people to lower it once it dries,” he said.

They got to work on the set pieces instead. Stan was relieved to be on solid ground, though it made the pain in his arms and shoulders more obvious. It also put him in closer contact with the hordes of amateur actors.

At nine in the evening, they called it quits at about the same time as the students began leaving. Stan was reminded by his churning and gurgling stomach that he hadn’t eaten that day, and between that and the building heat of the stage lights he was feeling a bit light headed.

He and Rick wandered outside into the cool air of the parking lot. Rick passed him a roll of cash. “There’s your cut. I dunno about you but _I_ need a drink.”

Stan’s stomach growled.

“Maybe some nachos too,” Rick said, “Hamish’s?” he asked, referring to the pub nearby campus.

Stan wanted to go.

A chill went through him, the sweat that had pooled on his neck and in the small of his back in the heat of the auditorium cooling him rapidly. He thought longingly of the winter coat still locked away in his car. His car.

“I... gotta save money,” Stan said. He kicked at the asphalt next to the bike’s back tire.

Rick’s mouth thinned out.

“I just handed you two hundred _fucking_ dollars and you can’t afford a fucking drink with me?”

“Yeah,” Stan said.

“Oh bullshit,” Rick said, “I can’t believe you’re this fucking pissed about me coming on to you,”

“ _What?_ ” Stan said.

“You heard me,” Rick said, “I know this one － fuckin bitch, bitch-ass white boys all for blow jobs as long as it’s not too gay.”

“Oh you _really_ got me pegged, huh?” Stan said, hands flexing.

“Oh I think so,” Rick said.

“Yeah?”

“ _Yeah_.”

“Well _fuck you_ , Rick, you don’t know a goddamn thing about me! Or maybe you’d fuckin know by now that I need the fuckin money!”

“ _Why_ would I know _anything_ about somebody who, who’s never said anything that isn’t a goddamn _lie_.”

Stan breathed heavily. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Well you’re sure as hell not a _graduate_ _bioinformatics_ student. You can barely use a computer,” Rick said, “I’m an a-a-artist, not an _idiot_.”

Stan flexed his hands, sore from holding a paintbrush for the last nine hours. He uncrumpled his windbreaker. It had a stripe of paint on it － Ford would be furious when he returned it.

He sighed gustily into the stretching silence. “Everything is... borrowed right now.”

Rick looked at him directly, frowning.

“My car’s in the shop. I’m staying illegally in my brother’s dorm. I’m using his name for on campus jobs. I need to get out of here… as soon as possible,” he paused, then added, “I'm not a student at all.”

Rick looked down at his bike, and coughed. “Oh, is that all?” he said lightly.

Stan shuffled his feet and pulled his windbreaker on. He shrugged.

“Well, s-sounds like a PBR and McDonald’s night then,” Rick said.

Stan laughed, harsh and wet, and nodded. He smiled tightly, face feeling tense and sore, and looked back up at Rick.

Rick offered him the motorcycle helmet.

* * *

They parked on the street outside Rick’s apartment, and Rick abruptly took off, leaving Stan to struggle with the 24 pack of beer and the bags of McDonald’s.

Stan called after him, but Rick just waved loosely at him, not looking back, “Meet you up there!”

Stan sighed and balanced the beer across his shoulder.

He got upstairs and into Rick’s apartment just in time to see him retreating from his closet area.

The apartment was largely as he remembered it. The walls were clear of drawings again, and there was a fresh streak of paint along the wall between the door to the kitchen and Rick’s closet.

“Aw, you didn’t have to clean up all for _me_ ,” Stan said, “I know how you live.”

Rick laughed, “For you? Nah, for the rats.”

Stan shouldered past him into the kitchen and set the McDonald’s down on the folding card table that apparently served as Rick’s dining area when he wasn’t eating in bed. He popped open the cardboard of the beer pack and started loading the cans into the fridge. Rick came up behind him and Stan passed him one of the lukewarm beers. The can popped open and Rick sat down at the card table.

Stan straightened up, closed the fridge and placed two cans in the freezer, then joined Rick with the last can from the pack. He opened up his McDonald’s and constructed his mega sandwich from the McChicken and McDouble. Rick furrowed his brow and offered him a fry.

Stan grinned and popped open his PBR, “You judging me?”

“No, no, _admiring_ ,” Rick said, “How many calories is that?”

“Almost eight hundred. And thirty six grams of protein,” Stan said.

“Genius. You’re getting some, some real bang for your buck there. Fuckin, what, three fifty?”

“Two dollars and twenty eight cents. With tax. _Dollar_ _menu_.”

Rick whistled. Stan smiled and took a long drink － the sodium definitely made PBR extremely drinkable.

Rick got up and grabbed his second beer from the freezer. Stan frowned. Rick had barely eaten three of his nuggets.

“ _You_ judging me?” Rick asked, sitting back down.

“Yeah, I am,” Stan said, “For eating your nuggets unsauced like some kind of animal.”

“Look Stan, did I, did I fuckin press you for _your_ tragic backstory? Back off, a man’s sauce is his own business.”

Stan snorted PBR out his nose.

* * *

Stan had blacked out once on PBR. It wasn’t a good experience － alone in his car, _very_ alone － so he had taken care not to repeat it.

He was definitely _very drunk_ now, though.

“I miss my car,” he told Rick. They had settled in on the mattress, backs against the wall, and something was playing on Rick’s TV. They craned their necks to see it high up on the bookshelf.

“Being able to get around is, is, very necessary,” Rick agreed.

“ _Not living with my brother_ is very necessary,” Stan said.

“Yeah?” Rick asked, tearing his watery gaze away from the TV.

“He hates me,” Stan said, tone embarrassingly morose.

“He’s letting you live with him,” Rick said.

“Yeah and _that’s_ definitely helping,” Stan said.

“Yeah?”

“Fuckin － I dunno. Acts like my mom. Acts like he can’t stand to see me. Fight every time we’re in the same room for more than five minutes now.”

“Guess that’s a lousy situation for a roommate,” Rick said, attention back on the TV.

“Yeah,” Stan said, leaning away from Rick and down into the bed, “When I get my car back, I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?”

“Yeah. Why would I stay here? It’s just － Ford’s never gonna forgive me. Things are just getting worse. And I’m not even sure who’s after me.”

“After you?” Rick asked, his attention startled away from the TV again.

“Yeah, the crash,” Stan said, groping off the edge of the mattress for the beer can, “If it was just the crash,” he attempted to shrug, too pressed into the sheets of the mattress for the motion to read, “but the guy just, went after me.”

Rick was silent.

“Just, hit my car, got out, started,” Stan rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, quest for his beercan forgotten. He gestured at his face. His healing scars felt obvious with his face burning underneath with alcohol.

“Was wearing a ring. I don’t,” he cleared his throat, “mighta been, I dunno, somebody I pissed off. I ripped off _a lot_ of people, Rick.”

Rick was silent.

“Mighta been random too － this city is a shithole. But why chance it,” Stan said, “Ford got me from the hospital, went and signed off on the repairs for the car, been all downhill from there.”

“Yeah?” Rick asked.

“What time is it?” Stan asked, suddenly worried, “He gets so _pissy_ if I come in too late. Or don’t tell him where I am. _Worried_ all of a sudden.”

“You were living in your car before?” Rick asked.

“Since my folks kicked me out,” Stan said.

“He can, he can piss off,” Rick said, “Stay here tonight, let him worry. Fuck it, stay tomorrow too.”

Stan craned his neck up to see Rick’s face. He was staring at the TV, but Stan saw his gaze flicker over to him.

“Thanks, bud,” Stan said, voice a little croaky.

“Don’t make it weird,” Rick said.

“I would _never_ ,” Stan said.

Stan leaned his head back into the sheets and tried to swallow down his smile.

“How long were you living out of your car?” Rick asked, curiously.

“I dunno. Year and a half?” He said, feeling tugged downward by alcohol.

There was a long pause.

“Hey Stan, how old are you?”

“Eighteen,” Stan answered on autopilot, almost asleep.

Rick inhaled audibly. Stan passed out before he thought to question it.


	6. Chapter 6

_Received from_ ** _Ford Pines_** _, 11:57 PM, Nov 4:_ Do you need to be let in?

 _Received from_ ** _Ford Pines_** _, 2:06 AM, Nov 5:_ I’m just going to bed, I’m not dealing with this again.

 _Sent to_ ** _Ford Pines_** _, 5:21 AM, Nov 5:_ yea im fine dont worry abt me

 _Received from_ ** _Ford Pines_** _, 10:38 PM, Nov 5_ : Do you need to be let in?

 _Sent to_ ** _Ford Pines_** _, 11:43 PM, Nov 5_ : no got a gig

* * *

_Received from_ ** _Ford Pines_** _, 10:00 PM, Nov 9_ : Do you need to be let in?

 _Sent to_ ** _Ford Pines_** _, 1:04 AM, Nov 10_ : dnt wry about it get some slep

* * *

Rick let him stay the night. Dropped Stan off on campus before his shift, while he went to the studio.

Then the next night he invited Stan to _“hangout”_ again － and told him not to worry about getting home. So he spent the night again. They played hold’em for stale potato chips over Genny Bock until Stan passed out.

Stan didn’t have a shift that day. So Rick let him chill in the apartment while he went out to look after a studio. He had reassembled his computer at some point and he showed Stan how to torrent through his VPN.

He left Stan set up with a wireless mouse and keyboard on the mattress, staring at the TV, which served as a monitor for the computer.

Stan was _enthralled_. He hadn’t exactly gotten a chance to watch anything that wasn’t shown at a bar for the last year and a half. Which was _great_ for UFC, but not so much for _Hawaii Five-o_ or _Cougar Town_. So he spent the day catching up.

Rick got home and reclaimed his computer. They wound up watching _It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia_ and laughing over Papa John’s until 4 AM.

Stan fell asleep sober, back against Rick’s thigh, the TV still playing into the dark room.

Soon a whole week passed and Stan didn’t have to see Ford.

* * *

“Right,” Rick said over breakfast, “I need to figure out a place to keep a spare key.”

“Mm?” Stan asked around a mouthful of simultaneously molten and frozen Hot Pocket.

“So I’m, I’m gonna get one made and you can hold onto it for me.”

The frozen cheese Stan had thought he was dealing with melted abruptly into _molten fucking lava_ cheese and he choked and coughed. “Yeah?” he asked.

“ _Yeah._ You ready to go?”

Stan shoved the rest of his Hot Pocket in his mouth rapidly and nodded. His mouth wasn’t clear enough to ask “Where?” until they were almost out the door.

“To get a, get a copy made,” Rick said, locking the door behind them.

“And you’re gonna give it to _me?_ ” Stan said, “Not, I dunno, put it in that plant?”

He gestured at a planter in the corner of the hall, and Rick paused and turned to look at him incredulously from the top of the stairs.

“In the _plant?_ ” Rick asked, “Stan. _Stan_.”

“Oh cripes,” Stan muttered.

“Just, just put it in the plant?” He asked, walking over to it. He fished around in the planter for a second and came up with a key, “Like, like some ancient asshole? Where do you think we _are?_ ” He shoved the key in a neighbor’s door and opened it. He gestured at his neighbors mess and walked in to stand amongst it, kicking at laundry. Stan rubbed tiredly at his face.

“I thought, thought better of you than this Stan. Every asshole keeps their key in a plant, like the next sec-second rate loser won’t check there _first_.”

“Right, right,” Stan said without sincerity, “Stupid suggestion. _Sorry_.”

Rick locked his neighbor’s apartment behind him and glared at Stan. He placed the key back into the planter and then tilted the whole thing to the side, sending dry clumps of soil onto the floor. He reached under and then brandished _another_ key at Stan. “You should be,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan said, and headed down the stairs.

* * *

With a key, Stan could leave while Rick was gone. He still didn’t have a car, but being more firmly in the suburbs meant he could walk to places.

So he did.

There was even a grocery store within walking distance, given a _liberal_ definition of “walking distance.”

Stan had never had an interest in cooking, but after living off McDonald’s － and more recently whatever he could find on campus － for a year and a half, he had begun to have vivid dreams of his mom’s admittedly mediocre food. So the first time that he walked into the grocery store, it was mostly just as a curiosity. He picked up a bulk pack of store-brand frozen chicken fingers and walked back to Rick’s.

When chicken fingers and binge watching television started getting old, he decided to try again.

It was a Wednesday, and Rick was gone for whatever it was he did on Wednesdays. Class, teaching a lab. Something. Stan could admit that he was fuzzy on the details of an MFA.

He layered up on T-Shirts, pulled on his (Ford’s) paint-stained windbreaker, and locked up behind him.

Twenty minutes into his walk, his phone buzzed.

_where are you_

It was Rick. Stan frowned. He texted back, _groceries. y._

_how long u think?_

_cupl hrs?_

_thx_

Stan shrugged and continued on.

He was feeling a little more settled at Rick’s and had found a pot and pan or two, so he figured he’d actually prowl the perimeters of the store when he got there, rather than heading directly to the frozen section.

There wasn’t a lot he was confident he could cook, but he could definitely handle some eggs and maybe even pancakes if he was feeling ambitious. So, eggs, some Kraft singles, pancake mix. And beer.

There, a plan.

He walked in through the automatic doors, past the produce, through the turkey section － the turkey section. He stopped to stare and a stressed out thirty-something woman nearly ran him down with her cart. He swore as she clipped his ankles. She apologized, sounding more harried than sincere, and then stood next to him, staring at the turkeys.

It was a week to Thanksgiving.

He wondered if Ford was going home. _Probably._ Probably went home last year too.

 _Stan_ had gotten a _turkey sub_ from _Quizno’s_ and cried in his car.

He bought his sad, shitty grocery list and left. A gust came up as he exited the store and dried out leaves skittered past him.

Ford hadn’t even tried to get in touch for a week, bar telling him when his checks came in. Out of sight out of mind? He texted him as he walked, _u goin home for thxgvn?_

Was Rick going home for the holiday? Stan hadn’t really gotten the impression Rick had anywhere else to go in general.

Fifteen minutes later, his phone buzzed.

_Yes. Do you want my room key while I’m gone?_

_no just wondrn thx tho_

The walk back home took maybe fifty minutes, with groceries in hand. He shouldered past a young, grinning blonde at the top of the apartment stairs. It was a little curious － he was starting to think Rick didn’t have neighbors, despite their messy apartments.

The apartment door was unlocked, and he frowned as he opened it, concerned. Rick was inside, rooting around the bookshelf in his boxers, smoking.  
  
“Oh, you’re back,” Stan said, “I was worried the lady in the hall had robbed the place.”

Rick smiled, “Nah, she’s uh, she’s fine. What’d you get at the store?”

“Eh, just some eggs and stuff － might make some now, you want any?”

“Sure.”

“Scrambled okay?” Stan asked as he started placing the beer in the fridge, “If not you can make your own goddamn eggs.”

“Scrambled is fine,” Rick said, following Stan into the kitchen. He sat at the table with a sketchpad.

Stan pulled a pan out of one of the cupboards and dropped some butter in to melt. He broke three eggs on the side of the frying pan, then dumped them into a paper dish. He mixed them up with a plastic fork and dumped a couple of barely used spices he’d found in. He broke up a slice of American cheese into strips and added those, and dumped the whole mix into the pan. They sizzled and he hurriedly turned the heat down.

Aw, shoot. Should have bought bread.

He turned to share this thought with Rick, and his eye caught on a darkening patch of skin on his neck.

_Oh._

Well what could he say to _that?_

“I guess it’s okay you didn’t invite your, uh, lady friend to stay for food － looks like she already _fed_.”

Rick looked up, startled, and laughed. “Yeah I feed a-all the classy bitches eggs scrambled with Kraft Singles － _great_ move.”

Stan snorted, and tried not to recall what her features had been like, and how Rick’s hands might have looked on her back while she _chewed his goddamn neck off._

“You uh, know that, uh, it’s better to keep your mouth shut and seem like an idiot, than uh, removing all doubt? That?” Rick asked.

“Yeah,” Stan said, shoving the eggs around with the plastic fork.

“Like that, but with food.”

“You calling my eggs idiots?” Stan asked.

“Well,” Rick said, “they can’t all grow up to be frittatas.”

Stan snorted and dumped the eggs out onto two paper plates. He set one in front of Rick, along with the fork. He grabbed a second fork for himself and sat down across from him.

“Tha-a- _anks_ , Stan,” Rick said, scribbling in his sketchbook with one hand and shoveling eggs in his mouth with the other.

Stan grinned tightly at him, but Rick was still looking at his sketchbook. Stan’s gaze caught again on the still blooming hickey and he averted his gaze to the fridge.

“You gonna be in town next week?” Stan asked.

“Where else would I be?” Rick answered, still scribbling.

Stan could make out the vague lines of a shapely woman on the paper, upside down from his perspective. He frowned.

“Well maybe your _girlfriend_ wants you to meet the family for Thanksgiving,” Stan said. He aimed for teasing, but judging by the dirty look Rick gave him, he might have hit _‘snotty’_ instead.

“ _Please_ ,” Rick said haughtily.

“Your new wife doesn’t want you to come home for the children?” Stan asked, “I had no idea things were that tough.”

Rick groaned.

* * *

Staying with Rick was pretty nice, Stan mused as he got ready for a shift on campus. Certainly better than staying with Ford and Fidds had been.

He pulled a long, white hair off his shirt and frowned. It had it’s own set of challenges though.

“You fuckin ready yet?” Rick asked, hovering impatiently by the door. He was giving Stan a ride. It was _possible_ to walk to campus, but increasingly less fun as the weather got cooler.

“Are you _shedding?_ ” Stan asked incredulously. The first hair had him looking more closely at his white t-shirt. They were _everywhere_.

“Only _braincells_ , ever, ever since I met you,” Rick said, crossing his arms.

“No, really － is there something wrong with you? Are you, I dunno, getting enough vitamins? Do you have _cancer?_ ”

“Don’t you have work?” Rick said, walking out the door without him.

* * *

Two days later, farting around Rick’s apartment, Stan spotted a spider above the bookshelf. His heart rate immediately picked up. He swatted at it with a rolled up sheet of pizza coupons without much luck. With the bookshelf in his way, it stayed out of reach.

He heard the door open and close. “Rick,” he called.

“What?” Rick asked, shedding his coat in the entryway. He came into the studio and stared. “W-what are you doing?”

“I can’t reach this spider,” Stan said.

“Oh,” Rick said. He looked at Stan and the spider for a moment longer, hands on his hips, and headed to the kitchen.

“You don’t maybe, I dunno, wanna give me a hand?” Stan said, weighing the likely outcomes of stepping up the bookcase.

“Nah,” Rick said, “Honestly Stan, you and, and Sheldon need to resolve your differences － he’s lived here a lot longer than you have.”

Stan swore at him, but grinned. He _was_ living there. Not just hanging out. It was nice to hear.

* * *

_Received from_ ** _Ford Pines_** _, 03:17 PM, Nov 20:_ You got another paycheck. I cashed it, it’s with the rest of your stuff.

_Sent to_ **_Ford Pines_ ** _, 5:21 PM, Nov 20: thx shud b gettin close now_

* * *

Saturday, Stan was watching TV while Rick drew him when his eye caught on a jock strap that had been kicked under the bookcase. He choked on nothing and started coughing.

“If you die try and, try and do it in the same position you were in,” Rick said.

“Thanks for the concern,” Stan croaked, gasping. “You’re not uh, into sports are you?”

“Only the athlete’s asses, EY-YO!” Rick said, laughing, “Up top!”

Stan leaned forward to high five him, still coughing, and tried not to dwell on the literal interpretation of that.

Tried.

* * *

“Oh, you, uh, you know what sport I do like watching?” Rick asked, as Stan watched last night’s UFC fight.

“What’s that?” Stan asked, distractedly sipping at his beer.

“Turkish oil wrestling.”

Stan choked.

* * *

Stan was asleep when Rick came in at three AM. _Was._

“Rick?” He asked.

“Yep,” Rick said, not turning on the light.

“Oh. Who else?” Stan asked.

“Uh. Just me, buddy,” Rick said, peeling off his shirt and chucking it into the corner.

“There’s someone else here,” Stan said.

“ _What?_ ” Rick said, “Who?”

“I don’t know,” Stan said.

“You didn’t think to get up and fucking look?” Rick said, looking wild eyed around the apartment. He flipped the light switch on and prowled into the kitchen, turning the light on there too. Stan pulled the cover up over his face.

Rick pulled the curtain back on his closet and checked the bathroom too. “What the fuck, Stan? There’s nobody here.”

“There’s someone else here,” Stan said.

“Yeah? Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh fuck it, you’re being weird, just shove over.”

* * *

Not sleeping on the floor was a big perk of staying with Rick. But the whole only one bed thing had its pitfalls. Mostly around the area of Stan’s trouble sleeping － startling awake, not falling asleep, hearing metal crunching and glass shattering, the paranoia… And now:

Stan woke up warm and comfortable, and with Rick’s morning wood digging into his ass-cheek.

He’d thought, at first, that Rick had come in drunk and kicked his shoes off in bed. He had tried to grab it and throw it away － and frozen when his hand made contact through the fabric of Rick’s boxers.

He inhaled sharply. Rick murmured and gently rocked his hips forward, still asleep.

Stan carefully, carefully, removed his hand. That gentle motion had settled Rick’s cock along the cleft of Stan’s ass.

Guiltily, Stan shifted back a little into Rick, his lower back feeling an indescribable relief at the warmth of Rick’s torso. His own dick twitched as Rick snorted sleepily and pressed into him.

Abruptly, Stan felt overwhelmed with shame. He wanted to launch himself off the mattress and make a run for it － but the thought of Rick waking up was horrifying.

He gently extricated himself and lurched into the bathroom.

Rick hadn’t shown any interest in him since he moved in, which, of _course_ , was a huge relief. Would have been a _real_ awkward situation, otherwise. Of course.

He jacked off in the shower, thinking of that first time Rick drew him － only, in his head, things went differently. Rick sat down his sketchbook and charcoal and －

Well. It didn’t happen that way.

* * *

Thursday, Rick was gone before Stan woke up in the afternoon.

Stan appreciated that, when he flailed his way awake through a nightmare of screaming, crunching metal and shattering glass. He shuddered and gasped, sweat soaking the sheet underneath him.

As he came back into himself, he groaned in frustration. He touched the sheets and grimaced.

He peeled them off and bundled them up. He found his t-shirt by the beach chair and sniffed it － it could use a wash too.

He stuck his head out the door and looked around before sauntering out in his boxers with the bundle of sheets and other laundry. Nobody was around － the shitty studios in this building weren’t exactly a prime place to host Thanksgiving. Those who could had probably already left to be with their families.

He inhaled deeply over the washing machine in the basement as he dumped in the detergent. Something about the smell cut through the lump in his throat.

He headed back upstairs. Showered. Looked for a shirt.

He only really had two, a white t-shirt and a white v-neck. One was in the wash. He didn’t know where the other was. He sighed and zipped his windbreaker up over his bare chest.

The walk to the store was cold, but the place was _sweltering_ inside with the body heat of harried, last minute shoppers. He avoided most of them by heading straight to the freezer section and taking the express checkout lane with two Hungry Man turkey dinners.

Plus a loaf of bread. He’d forgotten it before.

He walked back. Went down to the basement first, to move the sheets to the dryer. Headed back upstairs. He placed the frozen meals in the freezer, and sat at the table.

He texted Rick, _comin home?_

He drummed his fingers on the table while waiting for an answer.

_yea 1 hr_

Stan smiled and his face hurt. He took the frozen meals back out of the freezer, and read the back. He started the oven heating up, and peeled them out of their boxes and their plastic.

By the time Rick got home, there was only five minutes left on the timer. Stan heard the door open and close, and Rick came in sniffing the air.

“What the fuck is that?” he asked.

“Hungry Man,” Stan said.

“Fuckin Martha Stewart over here,” Rick said, “you make enough for two?”

“Yeah,” Stan said, with maybe a hair too much enthusiasm to pass for casual.

“I got time to shower?” Rick asked, “I’m fuckin, fuckin coated,” he said, wriggling painted fingers at Stan.

“If you make it snappy,” Stan said, “otherwise I might eat all of it.”

Rick grinned.

When he got out of the shower, though, it rapidly became apparent that there was no way Stan would have eaten all of it.

Because it was terrible.

Stan and Rick chewed on rubbery turkey, and kept chewing.

“You know,” Rick said, “there’s a, a place that does Thanksgiving calzones, do you maybe want to －”

“ _Yes._ ”


	7. Chapter 7

“I think he’s dead, Rick,” Stan said.

They sat at the kitchen table and stared at the brown shriveled bean sprout in the coffee can. With both of them shirtless, not even half-ready for a cloudy, wet day, it was a melancholy scene.

Rick sighed. “Ben the bean sprout, y-you were a good companion and an-an excellent wingman,” he pushed the coffee can away from him, “h-how am I supposed to get the bitches in bed now, Stan?”

Stan rolled his eyes, and ignored an internal twinge, “I’m sure your natural charisma will sort it out. Tell ‘em you’re in mourning.”

“I-I took excellent care of this bean sprout, Stan. _Excellent_. It wanted for _nothing_ in life. And it just fucks right off. _Betrayal_.”

“I bet it was that asshole Sheldon － probably thought the apartment was getting crowded. Went for an easy target,” Stan said.

“Well. Whatever. You got anything going on today besides work?” Rick asked, “Ready to get going?”

“Nah, just got the shift,” Stan said, “and yeah, lemme just get a shirt on.”

“Alright cool. I met with my thesis advisor yesterday and I could uh, could use some model time tonight if you’re down,” Rick said, “I might have to stay late in the studio though.”

“Right, thanks for the heads up,” Stan said, and tucked his charging cable in the pocket of his windbreaker, just in case.

* * *

Stan settled in to work at the pasta bar, clocked in as Ford, per usual. He didn’t mind working at the cantina, despite the heat and noise from all the kitchen equipment. The scents from the asian food station － alternately serving chicken teriyaki or general tso’s for the past several months － could get overwhelming, but the pasta at least didn’t really smell like anything, and it wasn’t as overwhelmingly sweaty as the pizza oven or the grill.

He had scalded himself twice, when he first started, slipping metal tubs of pasta into their steamy baths. His trainer had called him a _noob_ , shown him the right way to do it, and he hadn’t had a problem since. It wasn’t exactly rocket science.

As a plus, his shift started before the dinner rush so he had some time to get reaclimated before things got hectic. The students mostly weren’t bad, but the space had an uncanny ability to gather up every noise in the place and return it to your ears as a solid brick of unintelligible sound. Even ten people in the place sounded like a crowd, and a real crowd was _intense_.

When the lines got long, the pure repetition of filling a tub with noodles and dumping on the appropriate sauce wore on him. But in the whole place, he thought the pasta bar was probably the sweetest deal.

Making subs was okay too, but they were right up in the front, by the checkout lines, and students could really pile up over there, contributing to the claustrophobia of the limited kitchen space. There was also always at least two or three student workers at the substation, brushing by each other as they rushed for knives or rolls. It was just him at the pasta station.

His coworkers were alright, but he really just wanted to work his shift, get his free meal, and get out.

He had just settled in, fresh tubs of pasta in the baths, when a group of three walked purposefully up to the bar. He got one of the plastic carry out containers ready.

“Hey, can I help you folks?” he asked. They looked a little familiar.

“Maybe,” said the redheaded woman at the front of the group. “You’ve been hanging out with Rick, right?”

Well, that wasn’t what he was expecting. He frowned.

“Uh. When I said ‘help’ that actually meant ‘ _would you like some pasta_.’ It wasn’t, uh, an open thing.”

Behind the redhead, an olive skinned Mediterranean-looking man and an Indian... Stan wasn’t sure where to peg them - woman, maybe? She was slight, but with a very masculine haircut.

 _Tech-support_ Indian － not, you know, cowboys and Indians, Stan mentally noted.

But the two did not look amused.

“What’s her problem?” he asked the redhead, gesturing at the Indian woman’s darkening face.

The redhead’s nose wrinkled. “We all use _they_ pronouns, actually.”

“Oh. Uh. Sure,” Stan said.

“And you don’t need to get defensive about it,” said the Mediterranean ma － person.

“We’re just worried about him. And we saw him dropping you off,” added the other one.

“Look, I just dunno who’s asking.” Stan said, tossing the plastic container roughly back on the stack and fussing with some of the serving spoons to avoid eye contact.

“Oh － right,” said the redhead. “I’m Unity. We dated Rick for a while.” She smiled, and the sliver of recognition Stan had felt clicked into place as her - **_their_** \- dimples briefly appeared.

The day they had gone to the beach, he had seen sketches of the three in Rick’s apartment, before he’d torn them down. Sketches of their faces.

“Oh.” Stan said. “You dated Rick?” _Dated._

“ _We_ dated Rick.” They emphasized. Not, like, all three of them. Just the redhead. Unity? But the other two nodded along.

“We broke up in October,” they added.

Right, no wonder Rick didn’t want to _date_ anyone. Or him.

One broke, too-young asshole with a messed up face probably seemed like a pretty big step down from three _really hot people_. Stan didn’t even know that was an _option_.

He was glad for the heat of the kitchen equipment, he was already too red for his embarassment to show.

“What’s your name?” the redhead asked.

“Stan,” he answered, shortly.

“Stan,” said the Mediterranean one, “we just want a little peace of mind － Rick seemed like he was taking it really hard.”

That was a weird, _weird_ thing to say to a guy you didn’t really know, Stan thought. How would Rick feel about somebody talking that kind of shit?

“Rick’s okay,” he said.

“You’re looking after him?” asked the slight one that Stan had mistaken for a woman.

Stan scowled. “Yeah.” When Rick let him.

“Is Rick looking after _you?_ ” the redhead asked, touches of concern in their voice. As one, the groups’ eyes flickered across his face － across his healing scars.

“Look, do you want pasta or not?” Stan asked.

The three exchanged glances. “I could go for some penne with the red sauce. And the mixed vegetables?” said the Mediterranean-looking... fella.

Stan sloppily put together the dish, and snapped the lid on. He went to pass it over the glass, and they asked, “Do you have nutritional yeast?”

Stan gave them a hard look, “No.”

“Thanks.” They murmured. They all smiled to varying degrees, and the redhead waved as they walked off together to the checkout.

Stan’s shoulders slumped. He hadn’t realized how tight he’d been holding them.

No _fucking_ wonder.

He looked around the empty eatery, and took off for the bathroom.

* * *

He made it through the dinner rush without anybody asking about his face, neither the faint scars or the fresh red puffiness about his eyes. He was sure the heat lamps helped. His shift ended at ten, just another half hour, and he was looking forward to leaving. Maybe he’d find a secluded corner of the library to curl up in and collect his thoughts, before he went - well... went somewhere.

He wouldn’t stay with Rick tonight. Ford’s dorm would be better. He sighed, and absently prodded the bowtie noodles with a serving spoon.

He glanced around again for customers, and saw Ford striding across the room to the pasta bar, in a dress shirt and suit pants.

Oh geez.

“Heeey, brother,” Stan greeted, tiredly. He hadn’t really seen Ford in a couple weeks, which he would have thought would work for Ford － but Ford did not look happy.

Ford stood in front of the pasta bar. His jaw twisted unpleasantly, pulling at his cheeks. Finally, he spoke, “I just came from an academic achievement dinner－”

“Food no good? Want some pasta?” Stan joked.

“Stanley, I am _not_ in the mood,” Ford said, fists clenched. “I have never been so thoroughly humiliated in my _life_.”

Except maybe that other time Stan fucked it all up, probably. Ford tended to forget things in hyperbole.

“Uh, what’s up?” Stan asked.

“I was asked about my _modeling work_ by one _Anton Stein_.”

Stan met Ford’s intense glare blankly.

“That’s uh, not ringing any bells,” Stan said.

“Well then maybe you’ve heard of _Rick Sanchez_ , the person you’ve been making _homosexual pornography_ with. _Under my name_.” Ford leaned over the glass, glancing around to be sure nobody had heard, “ _Homosexual pornography?!_ ” he repeated, hissing.

Stan dropped the serving spoon, and it clattered in the metal tub. “What? _Homosexual pornography?_ ”

“Stanley, I didn’t even know you were gay － and this is... This is _my name_. I have to build an _academic career_ here.”

“What the fuck did the guy say to you to make you think I was gay?” Stan hissed back, leaning forward. He ignored the pounding in his ears. _Gay, gay, gay._

“ _Homosexual pornography!_ He said _homosexual pornography!_ How much is _Rick Sanchez_ paying you, _Stanford Pines_ , to participate in his _homosexual pornography. That_ is what he said,” Ford breathed heavily, knuckles red where he gripped at the glass.

Stan glanced again to the side, making sure his coworkers were thoroughly occupied over at the pizza oven. Nobody was listening.

“Okay, first of all,” Stan sain, “my face ain’t in any of those paintings - and our bodies don’t exactly look much alike － there’s no way that Stain-”

“ _Stein_.”

“ _-Stein_ , was looking that closely, or he’d fuckin know no way in hell that’s you. You have six fuckin fingers for christs sake.”

“Oh and _hands_ were the focal point, I’m sure,” Ford said.

“Well,” Stan coughed a little, and Ford began to look horrified, imagining what part _hands_ were playing in the _homosexual pornography_. “Oh _relax_ , Ford － the dirtiest thing Rick’s painted me doing is…” Stan trailed off and made a loose fist, then jacked it illustratively.

“ _Hand jobs?_ ”

“No! There were… no _other_ dicks involved.” Stan crossed his arms, and leaned back. “I dunno where that ass gets off calling it _homosexual_ , I’m the only one in those paintings. _He’s_ just trying to get at Rick.”

“ _Rick_ － who the hell is _Rick_ , even? Are you trying to _defend_ him? I’m your brother!”

“Defend him from _what?_ How the hell does this even affect you?” Stan said, voice rising steadily.

Ford slapped his hand against the glass, angrily. It reverberated through the structure, producing a low tone. “Just tell _Rick_ that he can’t use any of your… _You_ in public,” he said.

“Yeah, _ME_ ,” Stan shouted, “I think that means it’s _my business_ , what I tell him to do!”

Ford looked rapidly around the room, to be sure nobody had noticed their outbursts. Some people were looking in their direction. He leaned in close again. “Then how the hell did my name get mixed up in this? _Oh_ － because I’ve been letting you use it to work behind this _pasta bar_ , and _prance around naked in the art school!_ ”

  
  


“Well that’ll stop then,” Stan said angrily, flicking at the end of one of the serving spoons, so it clanged back down into the tray.

“What? Just like that?”

“Yeah,” Stan said, matter of factly, straightening up and crossing his arms, “Just like that. This is my last fucking shift. We’ll get one last paycheck in your name next payday, and I’ll have enough for my car. No more posing naked in the art building.”

“Oh,” Ford said, “that’s… good, then. But what about your, ah...” He hesitated, and gestured briefly at his own face.

“Bills from the hospital? Fuck it. Where they gonna send them? I’ll get my car and get out of here. And you don’t have to worry about me takin’ up your space anymore either,” he added. He glanced at the clock － his shift was about up. “I’ve got other places to be.”

“You’re not coming back to the room tonight?” Ford asked.

“Haven’t the past several, won’t tonight － don’t worry about it,” Stan said. “This place is about to close. You should get out of here.”

“Stanley,” Ford began, hesitantly, “you haven’t been sleeping－”

“－with _Rick?_ ” Stan asked angrily, “ _No._ ”

“I was going to ask _where_ , actually.” Ford said, crossing his arms and glancing away.

“Well I don’t think _that’s_ any of your beeswax either,” Stan said, picking the metal tubs out of the counter, the hot water steaming beneath them. “ _Later_ , Ford. I’ll see you on payday.”

He turned around, tub of pasta in hand, and headed to the back of the cantina.

* * *

Stan had practically forgotten that he didn’t want to see Rick either.

It was ten thirty, his shift was over, and it had snowed sometime while he was indoors. Not a lot. Just enough to remind everybody that November was more than on its way out, and they should feel lucky that lake effect hadn't fucked them up already.

The windbreaker wasn't cutting it. He was sweaty from the heat of the cantina and cooling rapidly. He took off on foot for the library.

He had a brief fantasy about a hot shower. He'd memorized Ford’s UID months ago, before he'd started staying at Rick's all the time. He could use it to shower at the gym － if the gym hadn't just closed. Maybe in the morning.

The library was warm, and with finals approaching in a week or so, open twenty four hours a day. Nobody would comment on anyone remotely college aged passed out on the couches there either. So Stan was confident he had a place to sleep at least.

But he wasn’t tired.

His phone buzzed, a text from Rick: _u done? ride?_

He closed it without replying and headed to one of the computers. He sat down, stared at the login screen for a moment, then picked his way through Ford’s password. He’d half caught it over Ford’s shoulder when he was signing into the campus wifi once. He knew Ford well enough to work out the other half.

It worked. He opened up the web browser and went to Facebook. Faced with another login screen, he thought about what he could do with only a first name. Unity wasn’t that common of a name, right? If he could filter it down to just the people on campus…

He logged in to Ford’s Facebook account, decided to skip leaving _im gay_ on Ford’s wall, and went straight to the search bar: _Unity_.

To his surprise, something came up immediately. Not the redhead he was expecting, but the tiny Indian person - _Samithi (Unity) Nethala._ Ford was _friends_ with her? Er. Them.

He clicked into their profile. His eyes skipped over their photo and cover image, and landed on the _about_ － a laundry list of accomplishments greeted him. Samithi was a doctoral candidate in biomedical engineering, apparently. Stan huffed. That had all the markings of someone Ford would just _love_. He looked further down, to the biography.

_Hi, I’m Samithi Unity. I’m in a committed poly relationship with_ _Ownah (Unity) Walsh_ _and_ _Acea (Unity) Marinos_ _, but I can’t tell you about it on my relationship page. What the hell facebook? Check out our blog,_ _just-poly-things.tumblr.com_ _for more of the everyday joys and annoyances of being poly._

_They/Them/Their pronouns please!_

Stan’s lips moved around the words _committed poly relationship_. He clicked on the link to Ownah’s page, and found the redhead he’d been looking for. A masters in gender studies?

Her biography was nearly identical: _Hi, I’m Ownah Unity! I’m in a committed poly relationship with …_

Ford wasn’t friends with Ownah. Stan frowned, went back to Samithi’s page. He clicked through their profile pictures － and _their_ felt natural again, because _they_ , all three of them, were in every picture, going back _years_. He didn’t see Rick though. They looked happy.

He went through their photo albums next. They volunteered at soup kitchens, apparently. Grumpily, he thought they must have a lot of time on their hands. He eventually saw them at a party, leaning into Rick and laughing.

Rick wasn’t tagged. He probably didn’t have a Facebook.

Stan clicked through more photos, looked over more of their wall. Happy. Social. Generous. _Not a fuck up who typically lived out of their car_.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been hoping to find. That they stepped on puppies, maybe? They all seemed like beautiful fucking people.

Well, nobody posted all their dirt on facebook. He drummed his fingers lightly on the keys.

Their Tumblr wasn’t helpful either. All blown-out soft pictures of three or more people together, with text over top. Sometimes confessionals written in by other people － people with the words to say, _I’m bisexual, I’m gay, I’m pan, I’m straight but －_

Stan felt exhausted. Who had the time to know themselves so certainly? To put it into _words_.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He reached for it and his hand brushed against a balled up napkin, stuffed in there back in september. He pulled it out with his phone and tried to flatten it.

Another text from Rick: _??_

The napkin was hopelessly creased but the image was still visible － a little faded out and smudged from moisture, but recognizable as his own face.

The scrapes all over his face had faded in the drawing. Maybe better than they had in real life. It was a flattering picture, all told. Ballpoint and beer stains and all.

He remembered the portraits he’d seen, that day in October, of Ownah, Acea, and Samithi － _Unity_. Loving charcoal lines all over the walls.

He didn’t quite measure up, did he? He huffed. He signed out of the computer and tossed the napkin in the trash as he headed for the stairs to the second floor.

He texted Rick _, dnt wry abt gttn me 2nite got stuff 2 do,_ and called it a day.


	8. Chapter 8

Sleeping across two arm chairs pulled together on the second floor of the library was more comfortable than the linoleum of Ford’s dorm, or his car.

Not as comfortable as a _real goddamn mattress_ though.

But, more than the mattress, he missed feeling like he could talk to somebody and it didn’t have to be a _lie_ , or a _fight_.

He woke up when security walked past, keys jangling, but they didn’t even spare a glance for him － or for any of the students with deep circles under their eyes, likewise curled up around their backpacks or still ticking away at computers.

The lights were on 24/7 and someone started crying over a textbook at five AM.

So the next day, eyes burning and feeling empty, he walked around campus, scoping out a new place to sleep. He used Ford’s UID to get free coffee and shower at the gym. There was some kind of event in the alumni union and he got a free slice of cold pizza. He had a little bit of cash on him, but if he wanted any more he’d have to get it from Ford’s room. Or he maybe had an extra twenty stashed at Ricks.

So better to keep it cheap.

He went back to the commuter lounge to watch Netflix. They closed at six and kicked him out.

He kind of wished he had a shift to work, just to have something to do.

There were soft benches outside the labs in the engineering building. He wound up sleeping there. The lights went off at midnight － but they came back on whenever someone walked down the hall.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

* * *

_Received from_ ** _Rick_** _, 8:32 PM, Dec 9:_ hey where r u

 _Received from_ ** _Rick_** _, 10:58 PM, Dec 9:_ what if I locked myself out and needed a key asshole

 _Sent to_ ** _Rick_** _, 1:25 AM, Dec 10:_ did u lock urself out

 _Received from_ ** _Rick_** _, 2:02 AM, Dec 10:_ well no im not an idiot

 _Received from_ ** _Rick_** _, 3:15 AM, Dec 10:_  ??

* * *

Ford texted him, _I got your paycheck._

Stan had been waiting for it all day, getting halfway to texting Ford first and then giving up. His heart soared, but it mostly felt like it was tugging on his diaphragm in an unpleasant, nauseating way.

 _meet u 2 cash it? also can fidds giv me a ride_ , he texted back.

 _Yes, outside the campus credit union? And I will ask,_ Ford replied.

 _when can u meet,_ Stan asked, and then hurriedly added, _no rush_.

_Twenty minutes? And Fiddleford says he can bring you now, if that works._

_yes if u can bring my cash,_ he texted.

_Alright, meet you there._

Stan was already on academic side, staring at a wall, so it only took him ten minutes to arrive. He paced nervously outside, and shivered in his － _Ford’s_ － windbreaker. Kicked at the side of an empty fountain.

Ford walked up in a long, dark, coat, face a little red from the cold. His gaze flickered obviously over his windbreaker. He probably noticed the paint stain. Fiddleford smiled faintly from Ford’s left and waved.

“Hey,” Stan said, and winced at the roughness of his own voice.

“Stanley,” Ford said.

“Hey there, Stanley,” said Fiddleford.

“Heey, Fidds, thanks for the ride,” Stan said, “you know, in advance.”

“Oh not a problem at all! I’m sure it’ll be a big relief to get your car back!”

“Yeah, uh, yeah,” Stan said, rubbing at the back of his neck, “do you think we can get in there before they close?”

“Of course,” Ford said, and brushed past Stan to lead the way into the credit union.

They smiled tightly, identically, at the teller as she cashed the check. Ford presented Stan with the rest of the money that had been stashed under his bed and Stan counted the combined amount twice. He nodded, eyes watery, at Fidds and Ford.

“Yep, that’s all of it.”

Fiddleford drove him first to the mechanic’s, then to the impound lot in the heart of the city where his car had been sitting for the last four months. Fiddleford stayed with his car, afraid it would be up on blocks if left unattended.

Ford and Stan walked into the impound lot’s office alone, and the workers opened the gate and handed him the car keys that had been with the mechanic. He nearly cried when his car started up. He _would_ have cried if he’d had to deal with a dead battery.

He stepped back out of his car, to where Ford was watching impassively, hands in his pockets.

“Ford,” he said, “thanks.”

Ford’s jaw worked for a moment. Finally, he said, “you’re welcome.”

Stan nodded, and looked for more words.

“So,” Ford said, feet shuffling, “are you going to stay in town?”

“No, no,” Stan said, “I’m uh, thinking I’ll head south.”

“Oh,” Ford said. He cleared his throat. “Is there anything you have left in the dorm?”

“Nope,” Stan said, “this is everything.”

He maybe had one shirt at Rick’s. Not worth getting.

A chill went through him, and he remembered his coat. He popped open his trunk and pulled his winter coat, brown suede and lined with faux fur, out from under the mess. It smelled stale and was bone-cold. He pulled off Ford’s windbreaker and handed it to him, then pulled his own coat on. It started warming immediately with his body heat.

Ford bundled the windbreaker under his arm and stuffed his hands back in his pockets.

“So. This is... goodbye then?” Ford said.

“Seems like,” Stan said.

They stood in silence in the impound lot.

“Are you,” Ford began, and then sighed, “Your… _boyfriend_. Are you going to see him before you leave?”

Stan sputtered, “Uh, what?”

“He... caught me outside the dorm. Asked about you,” Ford said, looking off to the side.

“You mean _Rick?_ ”

“Yes,” Ford said, “Him.”

Stan considered that, and frowned.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Stan said.

“Well, it’s none of my business either way,” Ford said.

“Yeah,” Stan said, “I uh, I think I’m gonna put some hours between me and this city while we’ve still got some daylight. Tell Fidds thanks for the ride. And,” he hesitated, “thanks Ford.”

Ford nodded and Stan reached for the handle of the car door. A hand on his shoulder stopped him, and Ford drew him abruptly into a brief, awkward hug.

“Stay safe, Stanley,” he said gruffly.

Stan’s throat felt thick. He nodded. “Good luck with school Ford － you don’t need it. But,” he coughed, “whatever. You’ll kick ass.”

Ford nodded. Stan got in the car and drove away.

* * *

He neglected to get on the highway.

He sat at a red light, the same intersection where he got T-Boned. He drummed his fingers on the wheel. He hadn’t driven in the city in so long. He glanced nervously to the left and right. When the light finally changed, he passed through without incident.

He passed the next highway entrance too. He oriented himself south － and a little west.

The streets he took became unfamiliar, but he realized he’d been on them before. They had just looked different as a pedestrian. He passed the grocery store, and was astounded by how quickly he arrived at Rick’s apartment.

He walked up the stairs and stopped to hesitate in the hallway. Eventually, he knocked before letting himself in.

Rick wasn’t home.

Which was probably fine － did he really _want_ to see Rick? Or was he here to find his other shirt?

He flipped a light switch on and looked around the place. One of Rick’s shitty abstract paintings was on the easel. Otherwise, the apartment looked familiar. He spotted his v-neck, folded and placed on the bookshelf. He picked it up.

No more excuses then. Time to go.

He sat in the beach chair instead.

He was still asking himself why when the door opened.

“Hey Rick,” he called, and Rick nearly tripped into the room in surprise, jacket still on.

“Holy _s-shitting_ hell, Stan, what the fuck,” Rick said.

“I uh, got my car back,” Stan said.

“No, what the fuck, where the hell have you been?” Rick said.

“Uh, around,” Stan said, he shifted in his chair as Rick stepped too close, towering over him.

“I thought you might have fucking died,” Rick said, staring at him.

“Well, I’m here and I’m healthy,” Stan said impatiently, scooching the chair back a little, “what else do you want?”

“What else _do_ I want,” Rick muttered to himself, crossing his arms. He paced away to stand by the entry. He huffed.

“How about dinner,” Stan said, “my treat.”

“Still eggs in the fridge,” Rick said.

“Yeah,” Stan said, and levered himself up.

“You gonna take off your coat?” Rick asked.

Stan shrugged as he headed to the kitchen. The question felt loaded.

“Maybe when the novelty wears off,” he said.

He pulled eggs and bread and cheese from the fridge. Rick hovered behind him, and Stan bumped into him as he closed the fridge door.

“Kitchen ain’t that big, buddy,” Stan said, a little brusquely.

“Right,” Rick said grumpily. He took a seat at the table, staring at Stan.

There was a stretching moment of silence as Stan moved pots and stale spices around, organizing. The pan heated. He dropped the eggs in and they sizzled.

“Got my car back,” Stan said, pushing the eggs around.

“You still planning on getting out of town?” Rick asked.

“Yeah － after dinner, maybe.”

“Jeez,” Rick said, “n-not wasting any time.”

“Well, why wait,” Stan shrugged.

“I guess,” Rick said.

Stan drummed his fingers on the counter and wondered what happened to all that ease between them. “You do your thesis show yet?” he asked, as he put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster.

“No － opens tomorrow. It’s all set up,” Rick said, wrinkling his nose, “shitty artwork everywhere.”

“Still letting your thesis advisor boss you around?” Stan asked, turning to face Rick.

Rick gave him a hard look, “I do want to, to, get out of here, Stan. We can’t all just, just, fucking take off on a whim.”

Stan shrugged.

“Whatever Rick, you’re, what, how old?”

“Twenty eight.”

“Letting that ass tell you what’s what － what, he’s really gonna fail you because you put the shit _you_ want in your show?”

“Uh, _yeah_ , Stan, th-that’s how fucking _school_ works.”

Stan leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms. “I dunno, Rick, sounds like bullshit to me. Like you’re _scared_.”

“Fuck you Stan.”

The toaster dinged, and Stan turned his back to remove the bread before Rick could add anything.

He placed the toast on two paper plates, dumped the eggs out across them, and sat down with Rick.

Rick picked up his fork and sighed, “I guess, worst case, I could do whatever the fuck I want － and argue my case with the ombuds office if he failed me. But, fuck it, it’s too late now － gallery is set up.”

“So? Let’s, I dunno, change it,” Stan said, balancing eggs on his toast.

“Place is locked,” Rick said.

Stan snorted, “It’s your call － but I bet it’s not locked up that tight.” He fished around in his pocket and flashed a hook pick at Rick quickly before returning it to his pocket.

Rick stared at him, “Okay,” he said, “th-that still leaves alarms.”

“We’re some smart guys. Bet you we can figure it out. Or, crazy idea － flash your ID, tell whatever fucking security shows up it’s your own goddamn show.”

Rick nodded at him slowly.

“Yeah,” he said, “okay.”

* * *

Stan helped Rick carry a pile of cloth-wrapped paintings from his makeshift closet down to his car, where they piled them in the trunk.

“It’s a nice car,” Rick offered as they piled in themselves.

“Thanks,” Stan said, and offered Rick a small but genuine smile, “I did a bunch of work on it in high school.”

They passed all the grey, abandoned strip malls and gas stations. They felt distant in a way they hadn’t from the back of Rick’s bike. Soon they were back in the big-box suburb that contained campus, and turned in to the school.

They parked as close to the art building as they dared, balanced the paintings on the largest of the bunch and each took an end. Rick lead with his body through the doors.

There was a card swipe access on the door of the gallery, within the art building, but when Stan looked at Rick questioningly, he shook his head.

“It’s g-got hours, IDs no good now.”

Stan shrugged. They carefully set the paintings down on a nearby table, and Rick hovered nervously as Stan got to work on the keyhole of the door.

It was ludicrously easy. Hooks and torsion wrenches in place, he twisted the lock open. He grinned at Rick, and bowed over his arm to gesture him inside.

“You’re a man of m-many talents, Stan,” Rick said, smiling.

The gallery space had tall, two story ceilings. There were exposed metal beams above, which did not look at all structurally useful. There were skinny floor to ceiling windows, filled with frosted glass, and they reflected on the grey concrete of the floor. The walls were grey brick, but there were large white slabs built out from them, and freestanding in the center of the room, only a story high. Rick’s abstracts were all over them. They fit right into the space, matched the industrial feel precisely with their dark washed out colors and stark lines.

Rick hefted the paintings they had brought inside on his own, and set them one by one in their wrapping underneath the frames of the abstracts.

“You frame the new ones?” Stan asked.

“Nah, we’re just gonna pop the canvasses up on the wall. It’ll be bare and raw like, like, uh, the subject matter.”

“Alright then,” Stan said, heading to the edges of the room to get started.

The picture of that threesome he’d seen all that time ago, he now recognized as the Unity trio. It went up along the wall, to the left of the entrance.

The dark skinned man masturbating. Two women next to each other with their hands snaking down to each others clits. Rick worked on the opposite side of the room, and Stan glanced over － he spotted his own body, still bruised from that distant crash, going up on the wall.

Faceless.

He frowned and turned back to his side of the room. He finished just as Rick called him for help with the largest painting of the batch, which he had set along a central block of paintings, directly in front of the door.

“Yeah,” Stan said, heading, over.

It was still wrapped in cloth, and Rick’s hand lingered on it hesitatingly, before he pulled away the cloth.

It was a painting of Stan.

But － not just Stan.

He was naked, as all the paintings were, but it was obscured by the sheets of the bed he was sat on. Rick was next to him too, also nude. They were surrounded by crumpled McDonald’s wrappers and PBR cans, the remote to the TV in between them.

They weren’t touching, but the lower halves of their faces were visible and they were facing each other, smiling toothily. Stan’s scars were barely there, cutting through his stubble subtly.

He felt abruptly breathless, recognizing _himself_ in a way he didn’t know that he ever had before. He felt like a passenger in his own body, seeing it before him － distinct. His body felt numb and separate, freshly aware of the fit and material of his clothes, like he’d just tried them on to judge.

He looked over to Rick, and caught Rick staring back. Rick had the faintest impression of a frown, and his eyes flickered, searching Stan’s face for a reaction.

Stan licked his lips, opened his mouth to say something, anything, and Rick broke eye contact, glancing down. Rick cleared his throat, and bent to grab one edge of the painting.

“Sorry,” Stan said, and helped him lift it onto the wall.

“No problem － uh, you know, thanks. For helping.”

“That’s everything?” Stan asked.

“Yep, that’s everything,” Rick said.

They turned in unison and headed out the door.

“Wish I could see the look on that bastard’s face when he sees _this_ ,” Stan said.

He thought, for just a moment － of staying one more night on a real mattress. Of one more night with beer and fast food with a _friend_. He thought, there was no way one more night would cut it. It wasn’t what he wanted.

“You, uh, you _could_ you know,” Rick said, “opening reception tomorrow － free to the public. You, uh, could come.”

“I could,” Stan said evenly, still tempted. Very tempted.

“On a, uh, totally unrelated tangent,” Rick said, “My lease is up in a month.”

“Yeah?” Stan breathed.

“Y-yeah. I could uh, stand to get out of this city, you know.”

“I definitely hear you there, pal,” Stan said. He smiled.

Wearing his own jacket and looking at Rick’s face, he was finally feeling like himself again.

As they left the building, Stan caught Rick’s hand. Rick startled and looked back. They lingered with the door open, cold air drifting in and the metal threshold creaking under Stan’s shoes. Rick closed the distance and faced Stan fully. His eyes flickered across Stan’s face － his scars, his mouth, his eyes.

Rick smiled, eyes crinkling, grabbed Stan’s other hand, and squeezed.

**Author's Note:**

> As my college years are coming to a close, I have found the urge to regurgitate the stories and experiences I've had on Stanchez. It's an effort to tie things up neatly with a bow, I guess, before I head out into the next phase of my pseudo-adulthood. After I finish [Ahead in the Back](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7215880), I think that'll be it for mining this particular chapter of my life for inspiration. 
> 
> Aside from the script to Ahead in the Back, this was my first attempt at writing in about twelve years. I owe a lot of thanks to the [various](http://amikae.tumblr.com/) [people](http://beta-19.tumblr.com) [that](http://lieutenantruby.tumblr.com) [allowed](http://minsugafree.tumblr.com) [me](http://spinetrick.tumblr.com) [to](http://stanchez-sloppy-seconds.tumblr.com) [shove](http://laundromatters.tumblr.com) this in their faces along the way. 
> 
> In particular, lieutenantruby, beta-19, and laundromatters. You guys are great. 
> 
> Thanks again to my artist and friend [Vierokosuja](http://vieroksujadraws.tumblr.com), and thank you to _everyone_.


End file.
